


Of the Beholder

by Lasgalendil



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Archivist Jonathan Sims, Asexual Character, Autistic Jonathan Sims, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Romance, Blindness, Body Horror, Body Image, Canon Asexual Character, Depression, Disability, Domestic Fluff, Double Dating, Drunkenness, Eating Disorders, Fluff and Angst, Human Disaster Jonathan Sims, Humor, Hunt Avatar Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Injury, M/M, Martin Blackwood Needs a Hug, Miscommunication, Non-Sexual Intimacy, POV Jonathan Sims, POV Martin Blackwood, Panic Attacks, Past Relationship(s), Permanent Injury, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Racism, Slurs, Touch-Starved, Twitch stream, Vomiting, croissantgate2020, jonathan sims' poor life choices, minor Martin Blackwood/others, oh admiral we're really in it now, past Jonathan Sims/Georgie Barker, staying friends with your ex, what the girlfriends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:47:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 20,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22748068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil
Summary: Martin's dealing with their new relationship and struggling with his mental illness....Jon's doing his best.
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Jonathan Sims & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood & The Admiral, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, The Admiral & Georgie Barker
Comments: 92
Kudos: 290





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Try this queer podcast, tumblr said. Now I'm in tma Hell.

Jonathan Sims, Martin knows (has always known, really) is a feral cat.

You can’t catch him, can’t cage him, can’t tame him. But you can coax him patiently. You can set tea and kindness like milk saucers out for him to stumble on. You can wait long years for him to grow accustomed to your presence. For him to come to you, to fall asleep curled sitting on your lap, to be held by you on his own time and terms but never, never picked up or petted.

…It’s enough. Really, it’s enough.

Jon sleeps like a stone. He’s so still, so cold, so fragile. It’s too much. Too much like waiting 6 months beside a hospital bed, beside a body that should be—that _is_ —a corpse.

He knew it would be like this.

But he never expected it would happen. He’d expected he’d walk into the Lonely, that Jon would be safe. Safe, but never his. How could he be? Someone like Jon didn’t belong to anyone. How could Jon belong to him?

He knew it would be like this.

Jon wasn’t a romantic. Jon _wasn’t_ romantic. Jon was aromantic. Asexual. Jon had been the reason he’d asked, learned, read up on and went to seminars, educated himself on what the word meant, what to expect, what not to expect. Being ace didn’t make Jon cold or standoffish or cross—and Jon was all of those, all on his own, it had nothing to do with his sexuality—it was just one more thing in that long list of things that simply made him _Jon_. And after partners pressuring him for things, mocking his body, for telling him what he’d already known, that he was pathetic, disgusting, that he’d never do any better, that he ought to do anything to keep them even when they made him weep, ashamed, well. He’d thought it’d be a relief, that’s all.

He never knew it would be like this.

He couldn’t’ve known that waking up next to the man he loved would feel like sleeping beside a corpse. A cold, uncaring body incapable of loving you back and really, how could it, when you couldn’t even love yourself? He needed a good cry. A bag of crisps. A plate of chips. He couldn’t— _wouldn’t_ —go rub one out in the loo more miserable and ashamed than he ever had been before Jon shared his bed. He wouldn’t do that to Jon. He couldn’t.

He’d always put others’ needs above his own. His mother’s, his friends’, his partners’. It was who he was as a person. Who he’d always be. Martin Blackwood was worthless, and his only value came in knowing it. Respecting it. And Jon was the world, his world, and right now he was asleep. Comfortable. Curled up against him. He couldn’t disturb that peace, not even to make himself a commiserating cup of tea. Instead he lay there half hard, heart aching, and willed himself to watch Jon sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Jonathan Sims was no longer human. He hadn’t been in a long while. It didn’t stop him from being 95% nicotine, caffeine, and bad hygiene.

He didn’t really sweat these days. Didn’t even need food—not the caloric kind, anyways. The caffeine was habit and the cigarettes an addiction, so he survived on cheap cigarettes and even cheaper coffee. He brushed his teeth to remove the fuzzy coating, of course, no need to feel disgusting, but clothing? Socks? Shoes? If he didn’t sweat then he didn’t _stink_ , and therefore, he reasoned, had no need to change. Or even bathe, really.

Martin hadn’t said anything, of course, because Martin was Martin and would die before expressing his distaste, but they were at the breakfast table, Martin nibbling away at a slice of toast, getting crumbs all down himself, stuck to his cheeks, and it was all rather endearing, really, when the Knowing struck him so hard it felt like a freight train: _If he doesn’t care at all for himself how can he possibly care for me._

But underneath it were the words Martin hadn’t said, not even to himself: _I don’t care for me_.

…And oh. Oh. Jon did not like that At. All. It wouldn’t be fair to say something, of course. He hadn’t meant to pry, had been quite content to watch Martin make a mess of breakfast, really. Bloody Beholding.

“Martin,” Jon said, clearing his throat. “Martin, I thought today we might go shopping.”

“Shopping?” Martin blinked.

“Yes. I need—well, I rather think I need another set of clothes. Sets of clothes.” He added hastily. “And I suppose a comb wouldn’t hurt.”

“You want to go shopping.” Martin repeated. “For clothes. And a comb?”

“We could get…lotion while we’re out, I suppose. My skin is dry.”


	3. Chapter 3

You see the thing is, what it really is, is that Martin Blackwood has been Lonely for a long, long time. Maybe even his whole life. And even here in the shopping center, surrounded by people, he feels like he’s been lost at sea. No, not lost. It’s worse than that. This was being tossed by the waves, drowning, unheard, unseen, unwanted, all while watching a party through a cruise ship window.

But affection is everywhere. He sees it. He can’t stop seeing it. Kids laughing. Mothers smiling, pushing prams. Couples hugging. Kissing. Holding hands. Friends placing a hand on an arm, a shoulder, the small of a back. Even the briefest, most platonic of touches a constant reminder of being Alone.

He wishes he were better. He wishes he didn’t wish that on Jon. He wishes he even _could_ wish that on Jon. He thinks how can he want to touch me if I can’t even stand to touch myself.


	4. Chapter 4

Ah. So here they were. At a shopping center in central London, because obtaining goods, services, and sundry was the best excuse he could think of on the fly to get Martin out of the oppressive loneliness of sharing their flat. Christ, that was depressing. He’d never been good company.

“What about this one?” Jon asked over the noxious fumes of the hygiene aisle. “It’s got tea.” Well, ‘with white tea extract for toner!’, the label proclaimed proudly. It was, Jon Knew, less than 0.0001% anything that had ever lived in or on or near a tea tree, and the child who’d harvested it had gone to bed hungry in her mother’s squalid hut due to the cold, uncaring forces of capitalism but huzzah for tea.

Martin blinked. “What about it?”

Jon poured over the tester bottle. Rubbed his hands. Lifted them to Martin’s face to sniff. “Well what do you think?”

“It’s…lotion?” Martin asked.

“I know it’s lotion. But does it, I don’t know—does it smell?”

Martin shrugged. “Sort of?”

“Yes, Martin, I know but does it smell _badly_.”

“It just—smells?”

“So you don’t mind it.”

“Um, no?” Martin said, bewildered. “I don’t mind it at all.”

“Well, rubbish then.” Jon dismissed it archly. “What about this one?” The eponymous ‘this one’ in question promising the “alluring scent and softness of 100% all natural organic fair trade cocoa butter” from a company that Jon Knew for a fact paid pennies a day to its workers while the CEO made millions off this farce of a charity, but ‘fair trade’, sure.

“I said I didn’t mind!” Martin protested.

“Well, obviously.” Jon lathered his hands again. “But you didn’t say you _liked_ it.”

“It’s fine,” Martin insisted, own hands stuffed uncomfortably in his pockets. “Really, it was fine.”

“Martin,” Jon sighed, and wafted the bottle. “I need you to concentrate. The lotion.”

“It’s...your lotion?”

“Yes, it’s my lotion but we share a _flat_. At least help me pick something you like.” Jon bullied him into putting out a hand of his own, and massaged it purposefully into his freckled skin. Awkward, yes, but so far his not so brilliant nor well-thought-out plan was working: Martin’s face had turned a bright, pleased pink.

“The um, the chocolate one’s nice.” Martin offered at his expectant look.

“Nice.” Jon repeated scathingly, dropping the bottle back onto the shelf in disgust. “ _Nice_.” Jonathan Sims had no formal theatre training, no, but did possess a flare for both vitriol and the dramatic that bordered on Absurd. He had been (as he was so often repeatedly informed) an _insufferable_ child. It was only natural he be an equally petulant adult.

In the end he kept the ruse up for the better part of an hour, testing product feel and scent, squeezing out and kneading lotion into every centimeter of Martin’s exposed skin despite his stammered (and flimsy) protests. Martin hadn’t even noticed that somewhere during this charade they’d begun to touch and hold (albeit rather slimy) hands.


	5. Chapter 5

Jonathan Sims is—well. Jonathan Sims is Jonathan Sims. And Martin Blackwood is still stuck being Martin Blackwood. He’s always been stuck being stupid, useless Martin Blackwood.

He’d misread it, that’s all. He’d misread the situation, got his hopes up, got his hopes dashed, and that was all his fault, really, so he can’t be upset with Jon. He can’t hate Jon if he tries. But himself? He can hate himself. Can hate himself for hating himself, for being so self-centered, so self-focused, for pitying himself for being unlovable instead of exercising, for eating his way through his problems instead of watching his weight and suddenly he’s stuck on the same on a roller coaster car he’s been on before, going down, down, deeper and darker and he can’t stop, he can’t stop, can only ride the despair and self-disgust and restriction all the way down.

He wishes he could blame the Spiral. He knows he can only blame himself.


	6. Chapter 6

Jonathan Sims was a (In)human disaster. And that was putting it _kindly_.

He couldn’t help Knowing, of course. But the whole trick with the lotion had been disingenuous at the least and disastrous at the worst. It turns out you couldn’t _start_ touching someone then turn around and keep _not_ _touching_ them. It left them feeling confused. Well, anxious, wounded, and suffering, to be more precise. Jonathan Sims hadn’t been a people person even when he’d been a person, he’d certainly neither been nor cared if he’d been considered a _good_ person, and he might (was most definitely) be a Monster (or an avatar of an unknown, uncaring, all-seeing god, take your pick), but he’d be damned if he was going to be a _bad boyfriend_.

…he just really didn’t want Martin to know he’d been, well, not spying. But it was all rather private and personal, wasn’t it? He couldn’t very well just casually state “Martin, I’ve been not-googling with my innate Eye powers and it seems as if you have an eating disorder” or “a certain Ms. Lizzo has a higher bmi than you and is currently recognized by the international media as a twenty-first century sex symbol, so do cheer up,” or “have you considered going back to therapy?” Without Martin well. Without Martin _knowing_ that he _Knew_. And that was a can of worms he’d rather not open.

(Literally.)

Martin craved physical intimacy, a public display of affection. Jon was a bristly bastard on the best of days, an absolute fiend on his worst, but even he could manage a grand gesture every great once in a while. He stood abruptly and got his coat.

“Jon?” Martin asked from where he was nestled on the couch. “Where are you going?”

“Out to eat. I’m tired of takeaway.”

“You don’t eat takeaway,” Martin reminded him, puzzled.

“No, but I’m tired of it.” Jon lied. “It’s all the same. Don’t you ever—I don’t know—want to be somewhere _nice_ for a change?”

“O—okay?” Martin asked, rather than agreed.

“Well,” Jon stood in the door and shrugged on his coat. “Are you coming or not?”

“What!?”

“Out to eat.”

They settled on Chinese, thank Christ, because Georgie was a wonderful person but Jon refused to even consider Hungarian food again. The restaurant was all polished and upscale and smelt heavenly, although Jon could have gone the entirety of his (un) natural life not knowing what feederism was, _thank you_ , suspiciously kinky gay waiter man. There was a ‘One of Those Things’ for everything. Apparently.

“Are you going to eat?” Martin asked after a moment.

“I thought I’d do some reading.” Jon didn’t really get hungry these days. And knowing the exact chemical composition of food down to the molecular level combined with the precise concentration of fly legs and human feces legally allotted by the European Commission really put a damper on things.

The book was engrossing, certainly, and offered enough of a distraction he’d stopped hearing the thoughts of every other person in the room. He was already a few paragraphs in when he became dimly aware that Martin had set down his fork.

“You brought a statement with you.”

“No, I brought a book.” Jon argued, brandishing the beautiful blue hardback, peeking at the bookplate as he always did for that nefarious sticker. An _autobiography_ , certainly, but a book, nonetheless. “It’s not exactly a date if you bring work with you, is it?”

“Is that what this is?” Martin asked timidly after a long moment of silence, fiddling with the tablecloth. “Are we on a date?”

“Oh.” Jon looked up from _Wave_ , not wanting to be rude but feeling absolutely _ravenous_. “I thought perhaps you might want to call it that. We don’t have to—“

Martin flushed. “It’s fine—“

“We don’t have to call it a date if you don’t want to call it a date—“ Jon continued.

“I said it’s fine. You can call it a date.”

“Well _I_ don’t want to call it a date if _you_ don’t want to call it a date—“ Jon countered, a touch too loudly, garnering the attention of the collective room. Good.

“I said you can call it a date.”

“Only if you want to.”

“It’s fine.” Martin sputtered. “It’s—it’s fine. We can date.”

Jon frowned. “I thought maybe you _wanted_ us to date—“

“Ok, we’re dating, alright?” Martin pled hysterically. “See? We’re dating! We’re on a date!”

“Yes. Alright. Quite.” Jon said. Then, after a brief silence he tore himself away from the book again to ask, “And is it er, a…good…date?”

Behind him, their server snorted. The couple at the table next to them laughed so hard they cried.


	7. Chapter 7

It’s…fine. It’s fine. They’re “dating”. Officially. Whatever that even means.

Mostly it means Jon makes increasingly awkward forays out in public and sits next to him on the couch instead of half-way across the room in the arm chair. It’s not…bad. It’s just—Jon’s so _small,_ how does he take up so much _room_. He’s barely skin and bones these days but he still manages to sprawl out like a cat in a sunbeam.

Martin’s big. He’s always been big. Always been taught to hide the bulk of his body, to shrink, to slouch, to take up as little space as possible, not to be an inconvenience, and Jon? Jon is just…Jon. He’s sprawled out taking up two thirds of the couch scrawny limbs askew and if Martin isn’t careful he’ll bump or brush up against him and Jon doesn’t like to be touched. Maybe he should move to the chair. That’d make things easier, wouldn’t it? Jon would be comfortable, they could both still see the tv, and he wouldn’t have to worry about—about _crowding_ him or anything. About being so aware of his own flabby, fleshy body.

He’s only just made up his mind when Jon whips his phone out, frowning down at the screen and typing furiously. It takes him too long to realize that Jon is _texting_.

Jon. Texting! It occurs to him that _of course_ Jon has a mobile. Everyone has a mobile, being the Avatar of the Eye doesn’t change that. They’re co-workers. Flatmates. “Dating” now, apparently. He has all his co-workers’ numbers saved, of course he does, but Jon? The only time he’d gotten texts from Jon was when Jane Prentiss had his phone. Two weeks of ‘stomach flu’ and eating canned peaches and fending off worms, fighting for his life and Jon’s only response had been: Yes. Ok.

No one had missed him. Jon hadn’t cared.

_He still doesn’t care—doesn’t even want to talk to you._

“Excuse me.” Jon yelps, and sprints to the bedroom. The door slams shut.

“Jon?” Martin sits up, more than a little alarmed.

“It’s fine, Martin.” Jon calls. It doesn’t sound fine. It sounds like he’s having a panic attack. “I need help.” Jon rasps. He tries not to listen. He really does. But Jon sounds anxious—even angry. If he needs help he could ask. He doesn’t even need to ask. He had and would do anything for Jon. He had to know that.

Martin knocks. Swings the door slowly open when Jon doesn’t reply.

“Oh. Yes. Right. I didn’t—Well.” Jon sighs. “I’ll just try Daisy, shall I?”

“Who was that?” Martin tries.

“Georgie,” Jon bites out distractedly.

Martin freezes. “Your e—your Georgie?”

“Yes, Martin,” Jon waves him away in frustration. “Georgie.”

Why Georgie? Why her? _Not everything is about you_ , he thinks savagely. It could be any number of things. It could be important.

…unlike him.

“Jon,” he asks instead. “Is it Melanie—? The Admiral—? Is everything okay?”

“Yes, it’s _fine_ , Martin, alright?” Jon interrupts him. “Just—just go make tea. Or something.”

_It’s fine._

It’s fine. He must have stammered it a hundred times this week what with Jon’s antics, and it hurts. Jon doesn’t mean it, he’s visibly upset, wasn’t trying to mock him. Over the years he’s both seen and received Jon’s biting indifference and curt dismissal, and this isn’t it. Then why does it still hurt? Why does it hurt even more? Jon’s stressed, and Martin’s being annoying, not giving him any privacy but—but tea is their _thing_. He spent literal years of his life fussing over Jon, minding him, making tea.

And it—

It hurts. “I’ll just—I’ll go make that tea then, shall I?” he musters cheerfully.

“Damnit.” Jon sighs.

“Yes, I know—no listen! This _is_ an emergency,” he hears Jon argue from the other room as he puts the kettle on. “Yes I _know_ I can _Know_ that isn’t the point—“ Jon continues as he collects two mugs from beside the sink. Whoever it is, it’s not going well. Jon hangs up with an exasperated “What sort of bloody advice is that!?”

“Who was that?” Martin asks, trying not to sound as wounded as he feels.

“That? Oh. Daisy. No help whatsoever, I swear.”

“Jon,” he tries, after an moment of awkward silence. “If you need help—“

“I know.”

“I’m just saying, you could ask—“

“I know.”

“Really, I’m happy to help.”

“Martin, I know!” Jon doesn’t shout, but he’s agitated, pacing. “Let’s just…let’s watch tv.” He casts himself onto the couch and goes still, all that ferocity now focused on _The Great British Bake-Off_. He doesn’t even touch his tea.

Martin holds his own mug warm against himself and stands in the kitchen doorway, uninteresting, unnoticed. As an Avatar of the Eye somedays Jon sees _everything_. Perhaps Jon just needs this distraction, can’t be bothered with him or anything else, really. “Is tv going to help—?” he tries.

“No.” Jon sighs irritably. “No I don’t think it shall.”


	8. Chapter 8

Georgie had been right of course, one doesn’t call one’s ex to deal with relationship trouble. Not that Georgie hadn’t been happy to help, she just—well. She told him Martin might not want her to, and she’d been right. Stupid, _stupid_ man. He'd gone and made things worse. Daisy on the other hand…well. Daisy had been less than sympathetic. “Talk to him” and “communicate” and “ask”. What a bloody waste of time. If he’d the first clue how to go about _that,_ he wouldn’t be in this situation now, would he?

Martin hated himself. Hated his body. Thought he was worthless—and worse, thought Jon agreed. And moreover Martin wanted him to what? Call him? Text him? Use his…phone? They were already living together, they shared a _bed_ , they’d gone on a _date_. Jon had been using him as a pillow _and_ a blanket for the past two weeks.

What was it Martin had said? A ‘sort of lo-fi charm’? Was this one of _Those Things_ —? Jon stared suspiciously at the mobile in his hand as the Beholding supplied him with an horrible barrage of apps and plug-ins. 

“Oh, surely not.” He scoffed.

He was the Avatar of the All-Seeing Eye. He could manage a _simple_ _conversation_ _via mobile_.

It was easier said than done. Punching ‘Martin’ on his contacts merely brought him to the Institute’s voicemail: “It’s Martin. I can’t come to the phone right now. Leave a message!”

Well, that was…unideal. Did he really not have Martin’s mobile saved? No sooner had he asked he was struck by a flowing stream of binary code coring straight through his brain all at once. “Alright,” he panted, clutching his head and the mobile tightly, now Knowing the number. “Alright.”

He saved the contact. Then dialed Martin.

“H-hello?” Martin’s voice came tinny and far away through the static of the phone. It reminded him too much of the Lonely. Sent a stab of panic through him. “Jon?”

“Martin!” Jon cried, “Where are you?” and found he’d opened five hundred pairs of eyes at once. Drivers pedestrians passengers security feeds posters graffiti even the blinking traffic light offered him a myriad of MARTINMARTINMARTIN! from every angle.

“Fuck.” Jon hissed. It hurt. It hurt a _lot_.

“Jon—?” Martin called out for him, alarmed.

Phone. Call. Yes. Right. “Ah, yes.” Jon cleared his throat, willed the throbbing between his temples down to a dull roar. “Listen, Martin, this is very important: I need you to pick up eggs, flour, cream, and powdered sugar. And strawberries.”

 _“What!”_ Martin yelped.

“I can’t find them anywhere,” Jon continued. “There’s no need to shout.”

“What the hell, Jon!” Martin voice rose hysterically. “I thought this was an emergency!”

“Oh. No. I shouldn’t think so.” Jon disagreed. “Unless you call an inconvenient lack of pastry ingredients an emergency.”

Martin heaved a weary sigh. “Why were you looking for pastry ingredients?”

“For _pastry_ , of course.”

“Jon.” Martin insisted. “What pastry.”

“The one I’m making, of course.”

“Jon…” Martin reminded him after a moment of hesitant silence. “You don’t cook—you don’t even _eat_.”

“Oh. No. But I thought—I thought you might like to?” Jon reasoned. “Cook. Together. Like your show.”

Silence.

“Martin?”

More silence.

“Martin.” Jon tried again, willing the panic to quiet and cursing the Beholding _to shut up shut up shut up_ as it opened another hundred or so eyes in response. “Martin—?”

“You called me to get _pastry ingredients_.” Martin repeated faintly.

“Yes.” Jon frowned. “I rather thought we’d established that.”

Absolute. Silence.

“Martin?” This conversation was not going according to plan. “Are you quite alright? We don’t have to if you don’t want to—“ Jon began as Martin blurted “Only if you want to—“

“Oh.” Jon stopped short. “I thought _you_ might want to.“

“—it’s fine, really, it’s fine—“

“—well I don’t want to if you don’t want to—“

“I said it’s fine. It’s fine. Okay?” Martin sighed. “It’s fine.”

It certainly didn’t _sound_ fine, Jon frowned at the now darkened and silent screen. _Strawberries_ , he scowled to himself. _What an absolute idiot_.

…clearly Martin preferred cranberries.


	9. Chapter 9

Jonathan Sims, as it turns out, is a stubborn arse, an emotional wreck, and an absolutely _insufferable_ cook. Martin is, in a word, smitten.

“Pre-heat the oven, Martin.”

“No, no, _level._ The recipe gives exact measurements for a _reason_ , Martin.”

“—I said soften the butter, not bloody well melt it—“

“—clearly specifies to mix by hand you can’t just use the mixer—“

“Pea-sized crumbles, Martin! _Pea. Sized._ _Crumbles_.”

“No, you can’t eat the dough it’s uncooked—do you know how many Britons died last year from salmonella poisoning—?” 

Jon’s somehow micromanaging their second(!) impromptu date night more than he’s ever done a day at the office. It is, quite frankly, as adorable as it is ridiculous. Although the fifth time Martin’s sent to wash his hands after touching the counter he rolls his eyes.

“Do you even know,” Jon swats his stray hand away from fishing a strawberry from the filling for the tarts, bent over to inspect the crusts at eye level before scalloping their edges with a fork. “How much Fecal. Bacteria.” He’s covered in flour, his glasses are slipping, he’s got his hair pulled back in a frayed, mangled bun, and he’s swimming in the “kiss the cook” apron Martin made ages ago in a community sewing class. He’s an absolute _disaster_ , and Martin loves him for it.

“We survived the Corruption, Jon,” Martin reminds him, not caring how much affection bleeds out in his voice. “I think the oven can handle a bit of bacteria.”

“ _Fecal_ bacteria.” Jon emphasizes, looking and sounding absolutely maniacal. “And it’s not the _oven_ I’m worried about.”

Jonathan Sims, admitting his fondness. It’s enough to make Martin’s heart melt.

…it isn’t, however, enough to keep him from polishing off the spatula and bowl. Jon is _scandalized_.

“Didn’t you ever—“

“No!” Jon sputters.

“Not even as a kid?”

“No.” Jon repeats.

“So you’re telling me you’re 30 years old and you’ve never _once_ licked a spatula.” Martin teases.

“No.” Jon insists, then frowns. “Is that—“

“Oh! No!” He’s _mortified_. He wouldn’t—he would never—“That um, that wasn’t a euphemism.”

“Yes. Right.” Jon clears his throat. There’s a long, awkward silence.

Shit. _Shit._ Jon’s trying to do something nice _Jon’s actually succeeding at doing something nice_ for him and he’s gone and ruined it, he’s ruined it like he always does, he fucked it up he’s such a failure his thoughts are spiraling and he—

Martin takes a deep breath. Then another.

He’s going to text Melanie. He’s going to text Melanie and get the number for her therapist and get help. He can— _he has to_ —do this. He can stop being so self-involved and thinking about his body and himself and give Jon a nice time. He can—

Jon frowns at him, and there’s a moment of tense silence. Shit. Shit, should he—he should _do something,_ say something, apologize—

“Pastries!” Jon calls with false cheer, transferring the tray to the oven with care, small hands engulfed in the oven mitts. He has to balance it on the end of his right arm, and Martin frets and hems and haws and hovers, trying not to make a nuisance of himself. He adores caring for Jon. Minding him. Jon, however, _despises_ being cared for.

…That’s not fair. Jon hates being reminded about his hand, that’s all. Sure he complains about Martin’s ministrations and the amount of tea he’s “forced” to consume, but he drinks it anyways. Never shrugs off a blanket or a jumper. He can take off an exhausted Jon’s shoes, prop his head on a pillow, tuck him up into bed with hardly a word of complaint. But the times he’d offered to help him dress or with his hair Jon had lashed out.

It’s what he does. When he’s—well. When he’s _scared_. Jon gets angry. Martin understands the sentiment. He’s angry and afraid at his own body’s failings, too.

“So, what then?” he tries, desperate to lure Jon back into conversation. “You and your gran never baked?”

“We did.” Jon says after a moment. “Sometimes. For Eid.”

Martin blinked. “You’re Muslim?”

“She was. Her son, too. I think.”

“But you’re…not?”

“She survived Partition?” Jon says. “I suppose it brought her some comfort, having faith. We never really…talked about it. But encountering a Leitner did put a damper on things, yes.” Jon shudders. “No giant spiders in the Koran I suppose but I wasn’t going to read books anymore, not after that. Not for a long while. It was…” he trails off. “It was a bad year. Few years. Decade, really.”

“I’m—I’m sorry, Jon. I didn’t know.”

Jon turns away. Busies himself at the sink. “I’m going to get started on the, ah, the dishes.”

“Right.” Martin agrees miserably. “Right. The dishes.”


	10. Chapter 10

Martin’s flat was cozy and impeccable, well ordered and clean. Still, statistically the kitchen was the filthiest room in the house. They couldn’t exactly cook in the _loo_ , of course. So the kitchen had to do.

Things were going well, fecal bacteria aside. Then Martin said something, and he’d misunderstood, because he’d been too bloody focused on the damned tarts instead of listening to _Martin,_ then the whole thing fell apart in seconds.

(He’d always been bad at small talk, but _Partition?_ Really—?)

Martin hated himself. Hated his body. Thought, what? That because Jon didn’t want sex he hated it, too? “Well, shit.” Jon said. The tarts were cooling, the kitchen was spotless, and Martin had gone to shower, get the sugar and flour out of his hair, get out of his own head, get away from _Jon_.

Then Jon had an idea. It wasn’t what one might call a _good_ idea, but few of his had been, really. Right. So. Doing this. Be casual. Act natural.

He threw open the bathroom door, pulling his shirt over his head.

…well, attempted pulling his shirt over his head. Instead he used the wrong hand—like a wanker—and got trapped half in and half out of the damned thing, and walked headfirst into the doorframe. He felt rather than heard his glasses breaking, and instantly Martin was above him, half-dressed, stammering _an apology_ , of all things, as if it’d been his fault Jon had fallen arse over tit and found himself sprawled on the bathroom floor.

“Jon? Jon! Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes, I’m _fine_ , Martin.” Martin had been minding him since they’d been archival assistants together. It was irritating and infuriating and _infantilizing_ yet comforting in its familiarity all at once. “It’s only pain.”

“You don’t look fine.” Martin fretted. “You’ve got—er, blood. On your jumper. All over.”

“Oh.” Jon said. And indeed he did. His nose was still leaking a steady drip, drip, drip. “It’s alright. It was coming off anyways.”

“It um, it what—?” Martin’s inflection rose.

“Obviously.” Jon returned, struggling out of the oversized jumper, and fumbling with his trousers.

“Jon!” Martin yelped. “What are you doing?”

“Oh. I thought we might…shower.” Jon said. “It’s what boyfriends, do, isn’t it?”

Martin paled.

“Martin?”

“You just hit your head, you’re still bleeding everywhere and you just called us _boyfriends_.”

“Oh.” Jon said. “Yes, well, I suppose I did.”

“And now you want to—to get _naked_.” Martin sputtered.

“That is typically how one showers, yes.” Jon intoned drily.

“That’s it.” Martin decided shakily. “I’m calling 999. You’re going to hospital.”

“I don’t need— Martin!”

“Hi. Yes, this is Martin Blackwood. I um, I need to report an emergency? Jon, he fell. Jon? He’s my—“ There was an abrupt, panicked pause. “My boss.”

Oh, for _fuck’s sake_ , Martin.

“—hit his head. No, no he’s conscious—”

“Martin, I’m fine.” Jon protested, pulling himself up by the towel bar.

“You stay there. You stay right there.” Martin ordered with more steel in his voice than Jon had ever heard, leaving to let the EMTs in. It shouldn’t surprise him. Martin had outwitted both Elias and Peter Lukas, after all.

Jon sat. “Yes, yes he’s talking. He’s just—he’s not making sense?” He heard Martin’s voice ring from the hallway. “He’s not himself?”

“Oh, _Christ,_ Martin.”

“You are going to hospital.”

“I don’t—what are they going to do, Martin? Wring their hands and stare again?”

“We aren’t arguing about this.” Martin informed him sternly. “If you won’t go, I’m calling Georgie.”

And oh, Jon winced. That hurt. If Martin was—

…well, if Martin was frightened enough he could push aside any and all feelings of inadequacy and insecurity to threaten him with _Georgie_ , well. Martin had lost too much already. Jon could taste his noxious panic, hear _notagainnotagainohgodnotagainnotjon_ like a litany in every too rapid beat of his heart.

“Alright, alright,” Jon agreed reluctantly, letting himself be lifted into the stretcher. “Christ, you get declared clinically dead once—“

“Um, pardon?” The EMT asked.

“Six months, Jon!” Martin reminded him.

“It was one time.” Jon argued.

“Six. Months.”

“Look, I’ve no concussion, a laceration to the forehead, several minor abrasions from the fall but I’m _fine_ , Martin.” Truth be told, he was more preoccupied with his glasses. He was the Archivist, the Avatar of a literal god, capable of surviving an explosion, being buried alive, and a _literal apocalypse_ but he was still so damned dependent on two fragile glass lenses. How the hell was he going to read statements now?

“You don’t know that!”

“Yes, Martin, I do!”

“You’re not a licensed doctor.”

“No, but I can pull the collective knowledge of several hundred of them,” Jon scowled, Beholding. “Oh, look. I’m fine.”

“Jesus, mate.” The EMTs said. “Mental status changes. You were right.”

“Oh, no.” Martin sighed. “He’s usually like this.”

(To which the Beholding added: Insufferable.)

Well. _That_ was rather uncalled for. So they sat in silence and took an absolutely miserable ride in an utterly miserable ambulance and had a completely miserable time in the emergency where staff panicked at Jon’s already knitting wounds and called _The bloody Magnus Institute_ and 999 to Section 31 them.

“Oh, fuck.” Daisy’s lilting voice filtered in from the doorframe. “You two? Really?”

“Hullo, Daisy.” Martin said.

Jon groaned. “Yes, I suppose some privacy would be too much to ask for, wouldn’t it.”

“He’s an undead and unpleasant little bastard. The Metropolitan police are quite aware of Mr. Sims and his—situation.” Daisy cowed the security staff and medical personnel alike. “You lot done wasting my time?”

“Martin’s not.” Jon sighed. “He’ll have _questions_.”

“You’re damned right I do.” Martin rounded on him. “If you’re fine then _what the hell, Jon_? What was all that about?”

“All what?”

“You called us boyfriends!” Martin exclaimed. “You said you wanted to _shower together_ —“

“What? Him? Sims? _He_ called you boyfriends?” Daisy whistled. “It really is the end of the world.”

“Shut up.” Jon told her. “Look, Martin, we’d been baking and _you_ were going to shower anyways so I don’t see—“

“That’s entirely beside the point, Jon!”

“Oh, I’m sorry. What about the global climate crisis and you spending the last six months isolating yourself to fight the Extinction—“

“You’ve forgotten how important spiders are to the ecosystem.” Daisy goaded with a toothy grin.

“Yes, _thank you_ , Daisy. I was being _environmentally conscious_." Jon lied. See?”

Martin gave him a look that told him exactly where Jon could shove his patronizing. “You’ve never called us boyfriends before.”

“I thought _you_ might like it if I called us boyfriends,” Jon argued.

Martin went a stark, shocked pink. “I—what?“

“Well, if you’d rather I not—“

“Only if you want to.” Martin blurted.

“Oh.” Jon stopped. “I thought—I thought you might want to?”

“I don’t—I don’t care. One way or the other. Really.” Martin’s voice cracked in an obvious lie.

Jon frowned. “Well, if you rather wouldn’t—“

“It’s fine.” Martin blurted, now in a blind panic. “It’s—it’s fine.”

“Fucking Christ,” Daisy muttered. “I need a drink.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me? Use Mechanisms lyrics from Gunpowder Tim vs. The Moon Kaiser AND Ragnarok V: End of the Line?


	11. Chapter 11

Jon’s been making an effort, he’s—he’s changing his _clothes_ , combing his _hair_ (however badly), even slathering himself in lotion until his usually dull brown skin is dewy and bright. He’s still scarred, of course, still painfully frail, but the dryness, the ashiness, the pinched, dehydrated look of an underfed stray are gone.

But more important than that, Jon’s been _spending time with him._ Taking him out to dinner almost every night, even if for him it’s just reading a biography in a different room and having to “deal with people”. And if they don’t go out, they cook in. And Jon will, will ask him about his day as if he’s not been there for the whole thing, as if he’s not Martin’s boss, still, technically. It’s—hopeless. And adorable. Martin’s in love.

…he’s been in love for a long, long time. But it finally _feels_ like Jon loves him back.

It’s an Italian restaurant tonight, and everything’s going rather wonderfully. He might even bully Jon into buying him gelato later when _Click! Whir_. “Recorder.” Martin manages around a mouthful of salad.

Jon looks up from his book, expression grim. “We need to go.”

“Jon?” Martin worries.

Jon stuffs the book into his bag. Jumps to his feet. “We need to go _now_.”

“Jon—“ Martin clenches his hand around the corkscrew in his pocket. “What is it. I can help.”

“Ah, no.” Jon dithers. “I—I don’t think you can.”

He grabs Jon’s hand. If it’s the Lonely Jon will find him. Even in the Forsaken Jon will _always_ find him. He’ll—he’ll panic, he’ll spiral, his depression will swallow him whole and it’ll feel like he’s dying like he’s all alone but _Jon will find him_. But there’s no tendrils of fog, no unnatural damp, no distant sound of waves on an empty shore. It’s hardly a relief. He looks around, the couple in the corner aren’t covered in boils or bugs or squirming worms. The butchy Asian woman near the door has sleeve tattoos, but none on her back. No plastic faces. No bared fangs. No yawning pit of flesh, no smothering darkness, no enveloping earth, no abrupt, forever fall—

That left what? The Web? The End? The _Slaughter_ —?

“Martin. Martin!” Jon’s voice. It grounds him, brings him back, and he’s gripping Jon’s bad hand fiercely, knuckles white. “It’s alright, Martin.” Jon’s wincing, but his voice is so gentle he could cry. “It’s alright.”

He lets go. Guilty. Ashamed. He hadn’t meant to—he would _never_ mean to hurt Jon. “You said we had to go.”

“Yes, well, I perhaps… _overstated a bit_.” Jon says through gritted teeth, sitting again and clutching the injured hand to his chest . “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“What’s going on?”

Jon sighs. Doesn’t meet his eyes. Mumbles to the table, “Georgie and Melanie are on their way here.”

 _That’s_ why Jon’s dressing up. _That’s_ why he’s taking care of himself. He doesn’t love you he couldn’t love you how could you think he could ever love you—

But that’s ridiculous, Martin tells himself That’s _categorically untrue_. Jon is trying. For him. Shut up, he orders those invasive thoughts. Just. Shut. Up. “I thought there was an-an-an Avatar, or an Entity, or an emergency or _something_!” he protests with a little laugh and a forced humor he doesn’t feel. “Turns out it’s just your ex-girlfriend.”

“Oh, no,” Jon tells him, voice dripping with glum and woe. “Georgie will be _much worse_.”

Martin—

…Martin can’t tell if it’s a joke or not. “Well, we don’t have to say _hullo_ ,” Martin assures him. “It’s fine. We can all be in the same—“

“You.” Georgie’s voice accuses from the door.

“Oh,” Melanie snickers. “Hello, Jon.”

Martin turns to face them. They’re arm in arm, Melanie’s white cane picking her way across the floor. “How did you—“ he begins, then thinks better of it. If Jon hates being reminded about his hand, he can’t imagine how Melanie must feel about her _eyes._

“She’s got this _specific voice register_ just for him.” Melanie shrugs, reaching out with her cane to prod a still silent Jon in the center of the chest. “Ha! Guessed where you were by where Martin’s sitting.”

“Are you quite satisfied.” Jon says in a long-suffering tone.

“Not yet.” Melanie pokes him again. “One day I’m going to be so good with this thing I can whack you on your thick head.”

“Melanie,” Georgie protests. “I do not have _a Jon voice_.”

“Oh, no. As much as it pains me I have to agree with Melanie. You—“ Jon begins, and Martin desperately tries to stomp his toes under the table.

“Not helping.” Georgie cuts him off flatly.

“Ah. Right.”

“Did you know we were coming?” She demands. “Were you _watching_ us?”

“No—yes. I just—just now.” Jon sighs. “When you reached the block. We were going.”

So of course the waiter chooses that moment to bring his entrée. Georgie stares down at the incriminating pasta. Martin has the sudden urge to cover it with his napkin, as if that would ease the situation. “Just going,” she says in contempt.

“Oh, fuck off.” Melanie overrules, reaching out to feel first the edge of the table, then the chair. She slowly lowers herself down. “We can all have dinner in the same restaurant. We’re _friends_.”

“Ex friends.” Georgie clarifies.

“Co-workers then.” Melanie insists.

“Ex-coworkers, actually.” Martin reminds her in apology.

“Exes?” Jon offers. The air between them grows even more awkward.

“Adults!” Melanie decides, slamming her fist down on the table like a gavel. The ice in his water jumps. “We’re all _adults_. And I’ve been stuck in Georgie’s flat all day and need someone to talk to.”

“I was home.” Georgie reproaches her. 

“You were _working_.” It's all so--domestic. Martin has the feeling they're not meant to be seeing this.

“The Admiral’s a very good listener,” Jon interrupts the moment.

“Sure,” Melanie agrees. “But the conversations are pretty one-sided, and if I have to listen to another goddamn audio book I’m going to _scream_.”

“Hmm,” he considers. “Martin, how do you feel about biographies?”

Martin has a _bad feeling_ about where this is going. “The kind where everyone dies horribly and there’s loads of trauma and death?” Still, if Jon can “deal with people” as he calls it for him, then Martin can listen to some horrific descriptions of the Great War or something.

“Well, yes,” Jon frowns. “Naturally. They’re _biographies_. They always end in a death.”

“Cheers!” Melanie says, and pats the seat next to her. “Sit.”

Georgie sighs. Seems to understand Melanie has no intention of going anywhere. She sits.

Okay. Right. So this is…apparently happening. “Alright,” Martin says aloud. “So a uh, a double-date, then?”

“So it would seem.” Jon fishes the book back out of his bag, stroking the fabric binding absently. He’s nervous. Stimming.

“Why don’t I call the server over.” Martin suggests. “And we’ll get um, some menus and food for everyone.”

“And drinks!” Melanie calls after him, a lopsided grin under her dark glasses. “I need alcohol. Copious amounts of alcohol.”

“Right.” Martin says. “Jon, you’ll—you’ll be okay?”

“Yes, of course, Martin.” He retorts, not looking up from picking at the pages of _Het Achterhuis._ “It’s only a restaurant.” Anger again. It’s what he does when he’s nervous. When he’s frightened. But trying to reason with Jon when he’s this prickly is like pulling teeth.

“Is that—“ he hears Georgie protest. “Is that _The Diary of Anne Frank—_?”

“Jesus, Jon!” Melanie exclaims. “That’s in poor taste!”

Jon's reading-- _eating_ \-- _The Diary of Anne Frank_. In Dutch. Apparently. Jon doesn't speak Dutch. Martin does _not_ have time for this. “Yes, um, two more for our party?” he tells the hostess.

“Will you be needing a braille menu?” she inquires, voice smooth and professional.

“No.” Martin answers unthinkingly. “It’s, um, she’s—it’s ah, quite new?” She gives him this sort of horrified look that’s usually reserved for Jon. Idiot, Martin berates himself.

Things haven’t fared any better in his absence. Georgie’s posture is stiff, her tone sharp. “Why are you even here?” She accuses Jon.

He blinks. “I like this restaurant?”

“You don’t eat.”

“I used to.” Jon argues.

“Wait,” Martin has a sinking feeling as he sits back down. He has a terrible suspicion where her hostility's come from. “Was this, you know— _your_ —restaurant?”

“Georgie never owned a restaurant, Martin. Although she did work in a coffeehouse during uni and once considered culina—right.” Jon trails off. “Sorry.”

“It was ours.” Georgie confirms.

“Oh.” Martin says. He feels very, _very_ small.

“…Yeah.”

“What?” Jon insists.

“You idiot.” Melanie sighs, but it's not unfriendly. “ _She_ got it in the divorce, _we_ were all set to have our first night out since I "handed in my notice", then _you_ turn up uninvited. Apparently there's _trauma_."

Jon scoffs. “I’m entirely certain that’s not how restaurants _work_.”

“No.” Martin hunches in on himself in second-hand shame. “No. She’s right. It is.”

“…oh.” Jon frowns. “Oh, right. Sorry." He stammers. "Georgie, I, no one told m—“

“It’s not something you need to be told!” Georgie exclaims. “You can’t just—just take your new partner out everywhere you used to go with your ex!”

“You are, technically speaking, doing the _exact same thing.”_

 _…and there goes the evening,_ Martin thinks. They’ll be lucky to make it to drinks, let alone appetizers. He glances over at Jon, _begs_ him to drop it, but Jon’s even worse with nonverbal cues as he is with spoken ones. And Jon and Georgie have _history_ , that sort where you know and care so much you can eviscerate the other.

 _“_ Christ, Jon, what is wrong with you!”

“That’s enough.” Martin tells her sharply. That’s _too much_. He’ll be polite and he’ll be pleasant and he’ll be lovely to anyone and everyone and she's _hurting_ but he won’t listen to someone insult Jon. Not for something he can’t help. “That’s not fair. Jon’s obviously on the spectrum and you know better than to make fun of him for it. It’s rude, it’s disrespectful, and he deserves better than that. Don’t get me started on you _outing_ him.”

"Jon, I--" Georgie clams up. Flushes. It’s not anger, he realizes. It’s shame. She's nearly in tears.

He doesn’t feel vindicated. He feels guilty, if anything. It was—it was undignified. Impolite. Unkind. Uncalled for. The sort of belittling thing his father used to do.

…not to mention he’s just outed Jon as autistic _and_ queer to an entire restaurant.

There’s a long, uncomfortable silence. It’s broken by the waiter bringing Melanie’s drink order.

“Two o’clock,” Georgie informs her with a shaky voice. “About a foot in front of you.”

Melanie reaches out slowly, fingers brushing the wine glass stem. Then she slugs back her merlot like a shot. “Well. Don’t need eyes to know Martin’s balls just dropped.”

“Melanie—“ Martin begins.

“Oh, no, I’m on your side. It was a bitchy move.” Melanie surprises them all with a grating apology. “I um, it was a really shitty thing I did when I was angry and that I regret and what I mean to say is,” she takes a short breath, forces the words out. “What I mean to say is, I’m _sorry_ , Jon. I was Georgie’s partner, I had a right to _know_ —I just, I should never have shared those things." She stops. "So don't blame her, alright?"

"God, Melanie--" Georgie begins. She looks to Jon. "I didn't know."

“Apology accepted.” Jon returns woodenly.

“Don’t get me wrong.” Melanie grins. “You’re _still_ a total arse, though.”

“I never said he wasn’t.” Martin says very, _very_ delicately. Melanie bursts into snorting peals of laughter, he’s actually smiling, and even Georgie’s having trouble keeping a straight face. The tension in her shoulders softens away.

“Right.” Jon decides, looking between them all in equal bafflement. “I’m going to—to _read_ , and the three of you can figure out…whatever this is.”

“It’s a custody battle.” Melanie explains. “Georgie still loves you but she also really hates you sometimes because _eyes_ so she feels guilty for hating you and angry for still loving you so it comes out _very aggressive_. That's whst my therapist says, at least. And Martin’s too nice to do anything about it. Usually.”

“I don’t—“ Georgie butts in.

“Shush. Not _in love_ with him.” Melanie insists in a familiar, fond exasperation. It’s odd, really, to hear it coming from someone else for a change. “It’s—look. You don’t get that pissed off about someone you _don’t care about_. You can’t. And I get it: you don’t take care of a kicked puppy for years then release it into the wild without worrying about it. You’re just feeling guilty you’re so relieved he’s got Martin.”

“You’re not…jealous. Or angry.” Jon states curiously. “Sounds like therapy’s…going well? Then?”

Therapy. Yes. He was going to ask—

“Of you?” Melanie snorts, now on her third glass of wine. “Of course not. You were _barely_ even her boyfriend.”

“Just because you don’t have sex with someone doesn’t mean they’re not your boyfriend.” Martin reminds her. He's...well. He's not unlike Georgie, he supposes. They're both protective of their partners.

“I _know._ ” Melanie emphasizes. “That’s why it’s a _joke_ , Martin. I'm _teasing_ him. Apparently I deal with trauma by using dark and inappropriate humour."

"We're working on it." Georgie admits. "We both are. She's a clown now and I'm a giant hulking rage monster."

"Look, What you lot do or more likely _do not_ get up to in the bedroom is none of my business," Melanie holds up her hands. “I’m just saying, it’s hard have penis envy when—“

“Melanie!” Georgie interjects.

“Is that a— _thing_.” Jon states with his usual dry, academic distaste. “I rather thought there were devices available for that sort of endeavor.”

Martin squeaks and drops his fork. Melanie chokes on her Merlot, and he has to thump her into breathing again. “Oh God, Jon...” Georgie’s mortified. “Just _stop_.”

“Right,” Jon agreed. “Right. I’ll just—read then, shall I?” And he buries his face back in his book.

“Some date night, huh?” Melanie asks. She’s still coughing, dabbing wine from her shirt, and there are tears shining wetly under her glasses from her laughter. Martin puts his face in his hands.

But all things considered—dinnertime discussion of sex toys notwithstanding— it actually doesn’t go that badly. It’s still awkward, there’s moments of tense silence, but for the most part they’re able to enjoy an evening together. They’re on a _date_. A _double_ date. A _successful_ double date _. A successful double date with Jon's ex._ It’s all fine, actually. It’s actually fine. And he finds himself wondering is this something they can do again? Go out together, spend time with other people, have fun? What was it he’d said to Tim? If we were all happy that wouldn’t actually be the end of the world? He half expects the Buried to swallow him up right there for even thinking it, but nothing happens. Is this…is this _normal life,_ now?

He wouldn’t know. He’s spent so long worrying and lying and fretting and minding he’s not had any time to live.

Everything’s wonderful until the tiramisu is served. Melanie sets down her fork on the edge of her plate, and it bounces onto the table with a clatter and rolls over the edge. Jon reaches out, snatches it in midair, but he’s used his right hand—his _wrong_ hand—to balance himself against the table. He knocks over her coffee.

Georgie yanks Melanie back in time but the sudden movement, clatter, and few hot spatters that reach her still startle her awfully. She’s clutching at Georgie, glasses askew. Jon gets the worst of it, his whole right sleeve sodden in steaming liquid. “Damn it!” he hisses. People are staring.

“It’s fine.” Martin soothes him, blotting up the liquid with napkins to keep it off all their laps. “Jon, it’s fine. Melanie? Georgie? Everyone okay?”

“No.” Melanie scowls, adjusting her glasses. She's clearly shaken. “PTSD is shit.” Martin can relate.

“Jon? How’s your hand?”

“Alright.” He snaps.

“Do you need—“ Martin persists.

“I said it’s alright—“

“—or are you just saying that because you don’t want to make a fuss.”

Jon glowers up at him, begrudging. He’s a bastard when he’s in pain. He’s an even bigger bastard when he’s called out. “I don’t want to make a fuss.”

“Right.” Martin decides. “I’m getting some ice. Mind him, will you?”

“Righto,” Melanie salutes, trying to regain her humour.

“My knight in shining armour.” Melanie’s snorting as Martin returns with a handful of ice in a cool, wet rag. “And by shining armour I mean dripping jumper. Next time don’t lose your shit over a fork.”

“I just—ah!“ Jon hisses as Martin presses the compress against his stinging hand. “I just thought if it fell you’d be embarrassed.”

“Fuck you.” Melanie retorts. “That’s not fair. I can’t hate you when you’re being all…all _stupid_ and _sweet_.” Georgie’s just looking at Jon all—what? Soft?

“Do you want to come over?” Martin invites them on a whim. “I’ve got a new tea I’ve been meaning to try out. And we could do a board game or table top or something.”

“Oh, no.” Georgie cuts him off, flustered. “We were just going to…stay and chat.”

Jon frowns. “Georgie, if you don’t want come over, you could just say.”

“Let me clarify.” Melanie clasps Georgie’s hand smugly. “By ‘stay and chat’ she means go home and have great sex.”

“Oh. Oh!” Jon startles. “Right. Well, uh, happy—that is, er, congratulations—?“

“Melanie, Georgie, lovely to see you,” Martin interrupts, standing and dragging Jon up from his seat. “We’ll just be going now. Excuse us.” He’s going to get Jon out of here before he can embarrass himself (and everyone else in earshot) even further. 

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Georgie teases.

“I—what?” Jon asks her, bewildered.

“Aren’t you forgetting something.” She repeats, cocking her head in amusement.

“Oh. Yes. Right.” Jon frowns. “Of course.” Then he leans down and gingerly kisses her on the cheek _._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on this tumblr meme
> 
> https://robotsweater.tumblr.com/post/190882091839/now-ive-moved-into-the-dangerous-territory-of-b99


	12. Chapter 12

_Jon kisses people._

It was only Martin’s shock that made him realize something had gone very, _very_ wrong. “Oh,” Jon stammered. “Oh. You meant—“

“The bill. I meant the bill.” Georgie said as the Beholding screamed at him in a mix of Martin’s many insecurities and Georgie’s own annoyance and fond bemusement. It was all A Bit Too Much. Jon sat down. Put his head on the table.

“What—what just happened?” Melanie demanded. “Will someone tell me what’s going on!”

It didn’t help they’d had an _audience._ He got to relive it through the eyes of what? Fifty people? 

…And _Martin_. He’d _hurt_ Martin. He couldn’t stop Beholding, couldn’t stop overhearing, as Martin’s thoughts raced, a pendulum swinging between _does he even know how much I’ve wanted to kiss him_ and _Jon kisses people but_ _doesn’t want to kiss me_ and all the self-loathing in between _._ He’d wondered when the Eye would make him monstrous, but it turned out he’d never needed any help. He’d only wanted to be rid of the guilt. He’d always been capable of inflicting pain on people he claimed to care about.

“Oh my God,” Melanie cut through his grim thoughts with a groan. “Did he just kiss you? You did, didn’t you. You’re a _disaster,_ Jon. You’re an absolute fucking _disaster._ ”

He didn’t disagree.

>>>

The tube ride home was silence and misery. Things had been going well. They’d gone for a stroll. Went out for dinner. Martin had even ordered dessert. They’d had fun(?) with friends(???). But now Martin’s stiff and silent beside him, clamping down on all his feelings just trying to _make it home_. Once they’re home he could have a good cry, he Beheld Martin reassuring himself. Once they’re home he can figure this all out it’s just… _Jon_.

_Jon’s here. I can’t._

The worst bit is Jon _Knows_. He knows his presence is making it worse. He should say something he has to say something—

But what did you say when kissing is the most intimacy you can give, and you’ve just kissed someone else? If the Buried or the Lonely were to swallow him right now, well, it’d be a relief. At least _those_ he could find his way out of.

“Look, Martin, I—“

“It’s fine, Jon.” Martin lied.

“I’m not—” Jon tried to explain, pacing the kitchen. “There was a lot going on, and, and my hand hurt, and it was that place and Georgie was _there_ and it was reflex—it’s not an excuse, I’m not saying it’s an excuse it’s just—“ it certainly _sounded_ like an excuse . “There was a lot going on,” He finished lamely. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“Did you—“ _get what you needed from Melanie, her therapist’s number_ , Jon stopped himself. 

Martin sighs. Won’t meet his eyes. “I said it’s fine.”

It’s most certainly _not_ fine, Jon wanted to argue. When things were fine no one slept on the couch. Well, not intentionally. He’d fallen asleep on Georgie’s and Martin’s sofas innumerable times in exhaustion, barely lasting a few minutes into whatever show happened to be playing at the time. “Look, Martin,” Jon offered. He’d seen this before. On the telly. Or something. When partners fight someone should take the couch, and it’d been his fault they were fighting— _were_ they fighting?—so it shouldn’t be Martin. “It’s your flat. Let me take the couch.”

“I’m not _kicking you out of bed_.” Martin enunciated a bit too clearly. “I’m just—I’m having tea.” Having tea, in this case, meaning a calm, controlled, rather British mental breakdown.

 _Bagged_ tea, Jon didn’t argue, not his usual loose leaf rooibos or oolong with all its steeping and straining and aerating. The kind that was cheapest, nastiest, and easiest to make. The kind Martin avoided with the sort of passion Jon reserved for _spiders_. He’d plunked the bag in a mug, filled it with water straight from the tap, and placed the whole sad affair in the microwave. It could hardly bode well for either of them.

“But you’re not—“ Jon stopped. “You’re not coming to bed.”

Martin turned to him. “Are you Beholding right now?” It wasn’t an accusation. Wasn’t angry. It was just…

Tired.

Martin loved him. But loving Jon made him so, _so_ tired.

“No,” he didn’t lie. Not exactly. He hadn’t been Beholding _right then,_ at least, although he doubted Martin would appreciate the semantics. “No, I—you’ve got bagged tea and _Call the Midwife_ on. You only do that when you’re…upset.”

“I am upset.” Martin said. “God, Jon—“ He stopped. Took a deep breath. “We’ll talk about it later.”

“Right.” Jon repeated. “Right.” Martin’s quiet. Holding all his messy emotions together. He wished he could chalk it up to Martin’s kindness, his gentle nature, his unfortunate tendency for forgiveness and self-sacrifice, even, but no. It’s a cracking control, like Beholding’s door. Martin’s keeping up the façade because _Jon’s there._ The moment he left the flat (left the room, even) the dam was going to burst and Martin would drown. And he didn’t want— _he wouldn’t let_ —Jon see him like that. No matter how much it might hurt him in the meantime.

Jon didn’t know what to do. Did he stay? Offer another apology? Or did he leave Martin to it, Alone?

 _Go away_ , Martin pled silently, clutching that tea cup like a talisman. _Just go away._

He went away.

He’d _kissed_ Georgie. _That_ was the problem, but Jon’s idiot brain had decided instead to fixate on _gelato_ , of all things. Martin had been going to order gelato. Before. Before Georgie and Melanie arrived and he’d gone and fucked everything up. Martin had been _happy._ He’d felt calm and comfortable and relaxed in his body and Jon had _ruined it_.

Perhaps he could go and…get some? Gelato, that is. Being lovely and helpful and, and _doing things_ was the sort of thing Martin did without fail: Did you want that tea. I was going down to the café, did you want a sandwich. He’d—he’d like that, wouldn’t he? If Jon _did something_ for him?

Of course then they’d have to talk about kissing. Jon was not ready to think about _thinking_ about talking about kissing. He’d had that conversation before. Not many times, but enough. The sample size was far too small to reach anything approaching statistical significance, of course, but even a case report or an observational study could indicate correlation if not causation. He had no desire to investigate further.

…Which brought him back to gelato. It would have to be _dairy,_ wouldn’t it, Jon sighed. It was a start, at least.

He closed his eyes, thought, gelato, and was treated to the painful download of 400+ years of information on the Italian dairy/desert industry complete with artisanal recipes. In thirty-four different native dialects. Which he now understood. Apparently.

The Eye was somehow _worse_ than he was.

Gelato. London, England. Jon gritted his teeth. Christ, he was going to have to Boolean search the Beholding, wasn’t he? Twenty-first Century. Within walking distance.

…Oh. Right. He pulled out his mobile.

Hours? Open. Directions? Yes. Wallet? Check.

He had headache, but more importantly, a _plan._ He could do this. Could do something nice for Martin. He could—

Jon stopped dead in the doorway. The shop hurt his eyes on a metaphysical level. It was pastel and garish, open late due to its proximity to a university and comedy clubs. Naturally it suffered an infestation of ecstatic young professionals and drunken students. The Corruption would have been far more welcoming.

…He could _maybe_ do this. Probably.

Jon grimaced. He’d had no hesitation following Martin into the Lonely. What was that saying? He’d braved worse for less? Not that Daisy was inferior in any way but the metaphor had gotten away from him. Point was, he could queue in _a gelato shop_ to do something nice for Martin. Surely.

_It’s fine. It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine._

He’d never been one for socializing. His own uni days had been spent mostly in various campus libraries while his classmates spend their time doing….whatever it was uni students did, he supposed. Drinking? Pot? Social media and sexual encounters? Whatever it’d been, it certainly hadn’t been their _schooling_. He’d a decade on them, now, at the least, but standing among them again he felt just as alien as ever. 

It was a strange comfort to know he’d not lost _this_ particular bit of his humanity.

But he still had to, to _stand_ there as people were—were _saying things_ , and _thinking things_ (check out this Paki that’s horrible shit that’s awful disgusting why doesn’t he cover them why would he make me look at that)and _worrying_ (about calories and money and rent and exams) and _breathing_ and they smelled like, like _sweat_ , like _soap_ , like the _products_ they _used_ the _food_ they _ate_ and there was _music_ , the lights were _so bright_ , and there were _so damned many choices_ what do you want can I get you something and they were all _bumpingjostlingcrowdinghim_ —

It was bad enough even without the Beholding. Jon fled the shop. 

He’s three streets over when his brain caught up to the rest of him.

He’d just—

He’d just had a panic attack. In a gelato shop. Christ, that was _ridiculous_. Survive on people’s trauma, relive their most intimately horrible life experiences in his dreams, pull their consciousness from their atoms for refusing his compulsions? Sure. But _gelato_ —?

“Of course not,” Jon snorted. He’d always only been pretending to be human. No. No, he could do this, damnit! He’d gone into The Lonely for Martin he could _buy some gelato_. He could, could _breathe_ , could _calm down_ , could _try again_.

But he couldn’t calm down. His heart rate’s up, he’s breathing too fast, he’s all adrenaline and nerves and a shaky feeling he couldn’t quite describe. He’s barreling blindly through the night like he’s wandering those damn tunnels, like he’s lost in spiraling corridors.

It’s not a retreat, it’s a regroup. He’s clearing his head. He’s calming himself down. He’s just—just taking a walk. Going nowhere. Getting further and further from the crowded campus streets. He’s drifting, aimless, meandering with no sense or purpose or direction. He just needed to calm down. To ground himself. He wished Martin—

But Martin wasn’t here. Martin was at home. Alone.

 _Stupid_ , Jon berated himself. _Stupid._ Martin was _upset and alone_ and Jon had just _left him there_. Couldn’t even get what? An apology gift? Was still walking—was still _running_ —away from him. Everything he’d done was helping _nothing_. Solving _nothing_. It’d been what? How many hours? Hours of abandonment. Of Martin left alone. All this time just pointless wandering, no closer to a solution. What the hell was he even doing—?

And all at once he Knew: he wasn’t panicking. Not really. Hadn’t even been going to get gelato. He’d come here—from the moment he’d decided to leave Martin, _leave his anchor behind_ — to Feed.

You never wanted this, no. But you absolutely did choose it. In a hundred ways, at a hundred thresholds, you pressed on. He’d left home, left humanity. Gave himself the excuse he needed to hear at every step and his feet had taken him where his hunger led him like a hound. He’d followed the acrid shock of fear, not a taste, not a smell, but a _sense_ all the same. So what if it had wafted from a body? An insignificant, meaty sack for storing memories in? He’d sensed fear and stalked them on instinct. Swift. Silent. Sure.

_Fuck._

It’s not like he’s a Hunter. He wouldn’t even be killing anyone. And the worst part—the very worst part—wasn’t the trying to rationalize it, justify it to himself. No. It was Knowing they’d be _fresh_. They’d be s _atisfying_ , not stale and lifeless like the statements and biographies he’d been forced to consume. He could devour this fear and feel _full_ for the first time in months. He’d brought himself here, alone, and he was so, _so_ hungry. 

No one else would ever know.

She’d noticed him now, walking faster, ever faster, but she never began to run. She was afraid for her life, afraid of sexual violence even, yet still that ever-important social anxiety won out, that fear of _being perceived as rude_. She didn’t want a stranger— _a brown man_ —to think she thought he could be an attacker. She wasn’t _racist_ , she wasn’t going to _run_. Her flat was just ahead, it was just ahead, all she had to do was get her keys out, get her keys out put a door and some stairs between them and she’d be safe—

It was a lie of course. Her fears followed her everywhere. So could he.

He caught up to her in the entryway. “Piss off!” She cried. Held up a can of defense spray. It didn’t matter. He could _See_ her. _Find_ her. _Catch_ her. He didn’t need _eyes_ , didn’t need _breath_ for this. Didn’t even have to _speak_. To _ask_. He could think and _rip_ it from her.

Her knees trembled and gave out. The empty can clattered to the floor. And in her wan, resigned face staring up at him, he saw Martin. Martin in the Lonely.

“Oh, fuck,” Jon stopped. “What am I—“

Everything you’ve done has been of your own free will.

He’d made a Choice once. A Choice to Live. To become something Else.

…He’d chosen wrong.

When he finally collapsed his hands were shaking. He didn’t know where he was. What he was. Face wet, soul empty. He was so, _so_ hungry. And frightened. And ashamed.

He needed—

Needed—

 _…Someone_. There was _Someone_. He had a phone. His fingers shook. His vision blurred.

“It’s 3 am. What the fuck, Jon. If this is even another bullshit ‘emergency’—”

He couldn’t words. There was too much. Too much. He curled into a ball. Tore at his ears his eyes his nose smashed his skull into the paving stones sobbed over and over and over to Make. It. Stop.

“I’m coming,” Someone said from far, far away. “Stay where you are. I’m coming.”

The world was raw. Too jagged around the edges. It was all too much. London was a city is a thousand years old and he could see and hear and smell and taste the fears of generation after generation the Celts the Romans the Angles the Saxons he’s lost he’s drowning he’s adrift and his jumper was wet and clinging why was his jumper wet and the stink was everywhere he clawed and pulled and tugged but it shrunk around him twisted and choked he was stuck he was stuck it was too hot he couldn’t _breathe_ —

“This is coming off.” Someone safe knelt next to him, cut through the knit fabric, peeled him like the Anglerfish. He shivered in the cold night air.

She sniffed. “God, you reek.”

“Let me look.” She ordered as he raised his hands to fend her torchlight away. “Let me look.”

“Lovely little head wound,” She assessed, swung the light between his eyes and it was _toobrighttoobrightmuchtoobright_ —

“Pupils are fine. No concussion. Tried to tear your own face off, hmm. You’ll live.”

She hauled him up. Led him to a car. “Get in.” His limbs were clumsy. Uncoordinated. “Fuck’s sake when I said I’d _pick you up_...”

He’s in a car. They’re in a car and the car’s on a street and people lived in and on and by and above and houses and flats and tents and tunnels shared them so many bright neon business signs London was a city its thousands of years old did you know that London was thousands of years old would you like to See like to Know like to Taste and Hear and Smell here is Everything, Everything, Everything Awful that has ever happened here all at once and you must drink, drink, drink, keep drinking or you will _drown_ —

The engine turned off. “C’mon.” Someone dragged him from the seat.

He flinched. Pulled away. He couldn’t— didn’t—

“Alright. No touching.” She conceded. “Up the stairs. C’mon.”

She brought him to the corner of a dark, quiet room. Sat up with him in silence. And it was still So Much. So. _Much_. But treading water now. Not going under. “Not alone,” she’d promised him once. “Not alone.”


	13. Chapter 13

When Martin wakes up his throat is sore. His mouth is dry. His nose is cracked. His eyes are achy. That empty, wrung-out feeling you only get from crying yourself to sleep. He grimaces. His breath tastes like—

Like unbrushed teeth. Crisps. Biscuits and reflux. And there’s wrappers and crumbs on the floor, on the sofa, on oh, Christ, all over _him_ to prove it. He shakes out his shirt. Sends half a dozen tape recorders flying.

He stares. The tape recorders continue whirring away worriedly.

“Oh, great.” Martin sighs, standing and stretching. “You heard that, then, did you?” The Netflix screen is black, asking him if he wants to ‘keep watching’. No thank you. He’s enough of being Watched as it is. And listened to. He looks at the tape recorders spooling away wrong-side up all over the floor. He sighs again. Picks up them up and places them on the crumb-strewn coffee table. As he enters the kitchen he looks back, has half a mind to tell them to stay.

He gets the kettle going. Grabs a clean teacup. Gets the milk from the refrigerator. Searches the cabinet for the sugar and strainer. It’s meaningless, of course, but it’s a soothing, grounding routine all the same. And isn’t it just great that the moments he most _needs_ it his brain refuses to perform. Binge eating and falling asleep in front of the telly. He needs better coping mechanisms. It’s been _years_ since he’s let it get this bad. Even when Jon was in hospital, even when his mum died he hadn’t let it get this bad. He’d been depressed, then, of course. Suicidally depressed. Apathetic. Agreeing to go along with Peter to protect the others, but mostly just to get himself killed.

And now? He’s alive, at least. But now he _hurts_. All over Hurts. He could feel happiness and connection, but he also felt anxiety and not good enough and panic and anger and jealousy and despair. He’d prefer the depression. The Nothing.

He eyes the fridge. Considers eating breakfast. But he’d fallen asleep eating. He doesn’t need to eat. A tape recorder appears on the kitchen counter. Just, out of the ether, appears there. “Alright, yes.” Martin sighs. He hadn’t exactly eaten good food. Some protein and fruit would do him some good. And then—

Then he could go…find Jon. Apologize.

A tape recorder blips into being next to the cabinet, whirring in distress. Martin sighs. Stands. Crosses the room and takes his meds.

He needs to change. Needs to talk to Jon. He’s brushing his teeth when another tape recorder manifests, this time on his towel. “I don’t have time.” He tells it.

It clicks on.

Martin sighs. “Alright, okay. You win. Happy?”

He turns the tap on. Lets the water get steamy so the mirror will fog and he won’t have to look at himself.

He reaches for the shampoo. Sees the tape recorder still spooling away on the sink. He hadn’t heard it running over the shower. “Oh, for—I’m taking care, alright?” he scolds it. “A little privacy, please?”

It clicked off.

Honestly, that _should_ be worrying. But he’d gotten so used to them over the last few years. If they were a sort of evil manifestation, they’d have attacked by now. As far as he can tell, they’re part of the Eye. Part of _Jon._ They just…like to listen. And alert them. When things are important.

…Like Martin crying. Martin binging. Martin getting a healthy breakfast, taking his meds, and practicing self-care.

He slides the shower curtain open to eye it suspiciously. It clicks back on. He sighs. It would be, wouldn’t it? Jon’s living with him—they’re living together—and they’ve inadvertently gotten _pets_.

“Well, come on, then.” He puts the bathroom recorder into his pocket as he dresses. “But there’s some places you shouldn’t be. Bathroom. Bedroom. Not keen on that.”

The tape recorder gives a click, and—Martin is never going to be able to think of it as anything but—goes back to sleep.

He takes the tube to Georgie’s. Stands in the front garden, uncertain. Musters up the courage to knock.

The door swings inwards. Melanie pokes her head out. “Yeah?”

“Hi, Melanie, I um, it’s Martin?”

“I know, dummy. I could tell because I still have _ears_.”

“Right, right, um…is…can I talk to Jon?”

“You think he’d be here?” she snorts. “After last night?”

“Honestly?” Martin says. “He’s no place else to go.”

“Georgie woke up to a text from Basira,” she shrugs. “Apparently Daisy’s got him.”

“Oh!” Martin says, equal parts pleased and bewildered. “Daisy. Right.” Jon hadn’t gone to Georgie’s house. It’s—comforting. Jon’s reaching out to other people. Other friends. Friends who hadn’t been his last partner. It’s also awful: Georgie’s the one person Jon’s always had, always depended on, and Martin’s isolating him. Cutting him off. It—

It felt a lot like what he’d let Peter Lukas do. What his father had done. Severing friendships and family ties one by one until they’d been all on their own.

“You alright?”

“Me? No. I mean yes! I’m fine,” Martin tries to lie, too late.

“You don’t _sound_ fine.” Melanie frowns.

“He doesn’t look fine either.” Georgie adds, appearing beside her.

“It’s the Celtic skin for you,” Martin sighs. “I get all—all _blotchy_ when I’ve been crying.”

“We wouldn’t know.” Melanie says. “Mela _win_.”

There’s a pause. Georgie groans.

“Oh come on someone laugh or high five me.” Melanie grumbles. “I’m hilarious.”

“Do you want to come in?” Georgie asks.

“I don’t want to be a bother, really—“

“It’s not a problem,” Georgie insists. “I’m collecting strays, apparently.”

“I’m not a stray,” Melanie argues.

“You. Are. Feral.” Georgie tells her, punctuating each word with a kiss to her forehead. She turns to him. “I’m popping out to the bakery—you want anything?”

“I um, I already—“

“Right. An assortment, then.” She kisses Melanie’s cheek. “See you.”

“Poor choice of words.” Melanie swats in the general direction/height of her arse and misses. Georgie just grins and sashays away. Martin’s _definitely_ intruding.

So. Alone. In Jon’s ex’s house. In _Georgie’s_ house. With Melanie. “Right.” And of course the tape recorder in his pocket choses that exact moment to turn itself on with an unmistakable click.

“Not you too,” Melanie frowns.

“Sorry, I’ll—“ but it won’t turn off. He’s fishing through his pockets and stammering and trying to get it to turn off, _gotosleepgotosleepgotosleep_ when Melanie heaves a sigh.

“I don’t know what’s so fucking important, but fine. Record away.” She grunts. “Well come on then. Unless you want The Admiral to get out.”

“Pspspsps,” Martin calls, peering around the doorframe.

“Oh, no. He’s asleep on the radiator—wait, what time is it?”

“One thirty?”

“Scratch that. He’s in the sunbeam.”

Martin stares. She senses his incredulity in the silence. “What? He and Georgie have a tight schedule. And let me tell you you trip arse over tit on a cat once and you’ll never do it again. I had to go get stitches. _Alone_.” She emphasizes with a shudder. “The spare room is a no go between ten and two.”

“R-right?” Martin says, trying for conversation and failing. “You um, you look…good?”

Melanie shrugs. “Wouldn’t know.”

“Right.” Martin agrees again. Is—is—was that a joke—? But the moment’s passed now, and they’re just standing in the entryway in awkward silence. “I would—could I meet him? If he’s not…busy?”

“He’s not got a _secretary_ , Martin,” she rolls her eyes, but puts a hand on the wall and walks him towards a sunlit spare bedroom.

“Oh.” Martin stops.

“What?” She smirks. “Weren’t convinced we were sharing a room? Thought I was joking when I said great sex?”

“What? No! Not…that. I meant—“ but the sheer level of adorable majesty leaves him speechless. The Admiral is Round. A Loaf. Chonk. Floof. A Big Boi. Maybe the biggest cat Martin’s ever seen. He is, in no uncertain terms, an Absolute Unit. Martin stands in awe.

“Yeah.” Melanie agrees after a moment. “He’s that effect on most people.” She pounds three times on the doorframe. “Alright, arsehole, wake up! We’ve got company. I’m not dealing with this alone.”

The Admiral perks awake, chirps, and waddles over for his due worship.

“Oh.” Martin says, bending down to pet him. “Oh. Hello.”

They follow Melanie back to the living room, The Admiral doing his best to twine underneath and trip both of them, with Melanie muttering curses under her breath and threatening to punt him across the room.

“You wouldn’t!” Martin’s walking bent half-over, still giving scritches.

“I have and I will.” Melanie levels with a scowl in the direction of that continuous purr. “He knows what he did.”

The Admiral mews and headbutts her leg. “Damn cat,” she says with such begrudging fondness Martin can’t help but smile a bit.

They sit down. In awkward silence. He’d, he’d play some music, put the telly on for background noise, but it would feel rude, wouldn’t it? So he sits. Sits and pets The Admiral. He’s warm and soft and purring grandly, climbing into his lap, dipping his head and rubbing his cheeks, turning and putting his cat arsehole right in Martin’s face. Martin scoops him up sideways and buries his face in The Admiral’s fur. He’s a warm, cuddly ball of soothing purr-fection and It. Is. Heaven.

Martin feels all the tightness in his shoulders relax at once, like the vibration has shaken them loose. But after a moment he realizes his head feels stuffy, his nose is running. Does, does he have an allergy or something—?

…No. Oh no. No, no, no. He’s _crying._ Weeping openly into The Admiral’s fluff. And he can’t stop. He’s just, just straight up crying into Georgie’s cat like he’s a tissue. He wants, wants to be _held_ , wants to be _comforted_ , wants a warm, weighted blanket and a hand in his hair. He wants the mum he remembered from his earliest childhood. Jon. He wants _Jon_. He’d gotten up and gotten dressed and took care of himself and told himself it was all going to be okay because he was going to see Jon to talk to Jon but Jon wasn’t _here_. He’s done all of this for nothing. And now he’s at Georgie’s place and she had her shit together and was organized and beautiful and confident and Martin’s a mess, he’s a _disaster_ , he should be out finding, talking to Jon but he can’t because he’s useless and he’s crying and all he’s got in the world is this cat and it isn’t even his.

Something clatters.

He looks up. Melanie’s half out of her seat, reaching for her toppled cane, hand frozen in place.

“Sorry,” he croaks, The Admiral nestled firmly under his chin.

“Well shit,” She says. “I was sort of hoping I could slink away before you remembered I was here.”

“It’s fine—“ Martin begins.

“Shut up.” She takes in a breath. Frowns. “It’s not fine. People who are fine don’t cry into a cat for no fucking reason and I would know, because I’ve done it.” She huffs. Tries again in that same grating tone she’d used when apologizing to Jon last night. “What I mean is Georgie’s getting breakfast, and I’m getting you the number for a therapist who’s dealt with some of the shitfest that’s the Magnus Institute.” It makes mean all the more hearing her _force_ the kindness out.

“Does she treat eating disorders as well?” Martin asks a little helplessly. Because at this point, why not.

“That was a…very personal thing to share.” Melanie decides. “Thank you. But I don’t know what to do with it so I’m walking away now. Can we...can you pet The Admiral while I make tea in awkward silence or something?”

“Oh, God yes.” He agrees, hugs The Admiral tighter in relief.

“And I’m putting on music.” She calls behind her. “So, cry away, or whatever.”

“Is that—“ he stops himself as she turns on a playlist. He can’t quite bring himself to say the words ‘I Wear My Sunglasses At Night’.

She put the electric kettle on. “It’s exactly what you think it is.”

“Really, really, really dark humour?”

“Too fucking soon, Martin.”

“Sorry.”

“That was a joke.” Melanie sighs from the kitchen.

“Oh, sorry!”

“Do you ever stop apologizing for anything?” She grimaces.

“No, sor—No.” Martin admits, still stroking The Admiral’s thick coat. “I um, it’s sort of habit by now.”

“I wasted a lot of my life doing that,” she maneuvers herself to the chair across from him, waiting for the water to boil. “Trying to make people happy. Be lovely. Blend in. Never worked. No matter what I did I was too brown, too queer, too _angry_ to make them happy. Don’t apologize for what you are. They sure as hell won’t.”

“A collection of debilitating neuroses pretending to be human?” Martin tries. The Admiral chirps.

“Yep.” She agrees. “I’m doing— _we’re_ doing our best. Everyone else can go and fuck themselves.”

The water’s ready. Martin follows her into the kitchen to do the cream and sugar (“because I’m still shit at fine motor skills, apparently”). He knows how hard it is for her to ask for help. He’s got The Admiral twining around his legs, stirring sugar into their cups when the front door opens and Georgie blusters in. “I’m home!” she sings. “And I’ve got croissants!”

“Ugh.” Melanie blanches in reflex.

“You, um, you don’t like croissants?” Martin asks delicately.

“Oh, no,” Georgie says with a sort of vicious glee, setting the table as breakfast/lunch/tea quickly devolves into domestic banter. “Melanie _loves_ croissants. Chocolate croissants in particular.” 

“It was my first trip out alone!” Melanie grumbles.

“The other day she ordered some pick-up in store, called a cab—all with my card, by the way, we’re still sorting out the disability—went down the shops by herself to get them and treated herself to a chocolate croissant.” Georgie elaborates. “And being the kind, considerate, _sharing_ partner she is, she didn’t get one for me.”

“You were working!” Melanie protests. “I didn’t think of it and anyways you weren’t _there_ , you weren’t going to _know_.”

“Mhhh-hhm,” Georgie continues, unconvinced. She slides the box towards him. “Have a scone. Or a croissant,” she grins. “Melanie’s not allowed.”

“Oh, no, thank you—“ Martin protests, a bit embarrassed and overwhelmed and feeling guilty about not taking one and maybe he should take one he doesn’t want to be _rude_ when he hears Melanie kick her under the table.

Georgie sighs. Gives them stink eyes. “Whatever’s going on here, you two are not subtle.”

“Nope.” Melanie propels the conversation forwards with the sheer force of her tactlessness. “Conversation over. Go back to lying to our guest.”

“Well. She shows up at home with chocolate smears all down her face and her lipstick ruined—“

“I still can’t believe no one told me.” Melanie mutters.

“Melanie, you’ve a classic case of resting bitch face. You’re intimidating at the best of times and now you wear sunglasses indoors and carry a _weapon_ ,” Georgie teases. “Martin’s on my side, aren’t you, Martin?”

They both turn to face him. Martin gulps. Takes a long sip of tea. Melanie’s spreading clotted cream on a scone rather forcefully with a knife that looks better suited to chopping veg and which he _knows for a fact_ has dispatched its fair share of flesh monsters. He’s about to about to declare his neutrality in the Great Croissant Crisis and excuse himself when The Admiral saves him by springing from his lap to join them on the table.

“No, no scones for you!” Georgie scolds him, shutting the paper box and hefting The Admiral onto the floor with an oof. “Watch out.” She warns him. “Don’t let the cuddly exterior fool you, he’s a horrible menace. He’ll _climb_ you for a scone.”

“He’d sell you to Satan for one corn chip,” Melanie continues conversationally.

“Are you—“ Martin stops. Stares. “Are you _quoting memes_ at me?”

“I do it all the time. To Jon, at least.” Melanie explains around a mouthful of cream and jam with a hint of a cackle. “Apparently he ‘ _knows what a meme is_ ’ but so far he’s not noticed.”

“Melanie,” Georgie disapproves.

“What?” she argues. “I’m _blind_ , not dead. I’m allowed to have fun. My therapist says I’m allowed to have fun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #croissantgate #croissantgate2020 #catforchat #pspspspspspsps #harold they're lesbians
> 
> Sasha (Georgie's VA) has a very chill twitch stream where they play the Sims and read us Jane Austen for bedtime stories. It's really soothing in a really shitty time. Jonny (TMA writer, Jon's VA and KNOWS WHAT HE DID) also plays there but it's more blood and decapitating things while chat cries about cute cats and attempts to ritually summon them. Both streams are fun and great for lore!
> 
> You can find the stream from their twitter pages, @SiennaSasha and @jonnywaistcoat.


	14. Chapter 14

Jon woke up on the floor draped in a police traffic jacket, more groggy and disheveled than he’d felt since his cane-wielding, wound-opening, ill-advised tunnel exploration days. His head hurt. His face was itchy with flecks of dried dye. He couldn’t find his glasses anywhere.

And he _stunk_.

He didn’t want to think about why. He needed—

The flat’s floorplan Ah. Excellent. Then he gritted his teeth against the Beholding’s additional download of the landlord’s ongoing tax evasion scheme, the previous tenant’s failed marriage and messy divorce filings, and, finally, the pièce de résistance: the deceased architect’s hobby of collecting Victorian era vintage pornography. 

Jon sighed.

He got up. Stumbled to the loo. Stood over the sink. Splashed water on his face. Scrubbed at blood and salt and dye spray.

“No.” Basira’s voice rang from the doorway. “You’re literally purple. You take a proper shower.”

“I don’t—“

“We’ll find you something when you don’t stink.”

“And until then I just, sit here…” Jon trailed off. It didn’t feel right to say ‘naked’, not when he was an uninvited guest in her (Their? Their.) house. Not when she’d just let him see her without her head covered for the first time, dark curls neatly braided. They weren’t exactly…were they _friends-?_ He didn’t know how to react, other than freezing in place. Brilliant.

“I’ve seen you in a _sarong_.” Basira leveled. “You’ll have a towel. Same thing. Now toss ‘em.”

“I’m not getting these back, am I.” Jon Knew with a sigh.

“No.” Basira said. “They’re going straight in the bin.”

“You can’t, I don’t know, wash them or something?”

“One, I’m not your damn mother. Two? These stains? They’re not coming out. Smell’s not coming out, either.”

“Fine.” Jon relented. “I was going to ask you to bag them but you’re already planning on ‘accidentally’ mistaking them for rubbish.”

“I’m not _mistaking_ them for anything.”

Jon sighed. “I suppose I’m just…tired. Of losing things.”

“I’d say we’ll get you better ones, but last time you wouldn’t wear them.”

“Well, no.” Jon frowned. “All you got me were button downs.”

“I got you _nice_ button downs. When we first met you were all button downs and waist coats and sweater vests. A right pompous arsehole.”

“A lot’s happened since then.” Jon picked at the shirt hem. Like being homeless. And a fugitive. The hand. Getting kidnapped. Getting kidnapped again. Running around the world living out of a suitcase and cheap hotels. Another kidnapping. The Unknowing. Saving the World. Losing—

Losing _Tim_. Waking to find the world had changed, gone on without him. That he had changed. Watching Martin drift away. “I can’t—I can’t do _seams_.” Jon spilled in frustration. “Not with the scars. Or the burns. Nothing tight. It— _hurts_. And I can’t do buttons. Or zippers. Or laces. I’m the Archivist. I don’t have time to—“ to care what people thought. It was freeing, actually. To not give a damn. To hear everyone’s silent judgment on his race and appearance and—and not be _unbothered_ , but to truly Know their petty insignificance. “It’s just—this is…easier.”

“Cosplaying Gertrude Robinson?”

Gertrude had dressed carefully. Conservatively. Emphasized her frailty, femininity. Donned that persona of the doddering old woman like armour. It’d been a good disguise, one people were more than willing to project on her. Jon didn’t have that excuse. “Being comfortable.”

“Hmm.” Basira decided. “Then I’ll find you something comfortable.”

And that’s how he ended up scrubbed pink with a towel around his head, struggling into in some of Daisy’s sagging athletic crop leggings and one of her t-shirts that slipped from his shoulders and went down almost past his knees. It made for a comfortable—if highly questionable—shalwar kameez. He frowned at the logo emblazoned all across his chest. Was this cricket? Football—? A…beer? Either way, the less he knew(and Knew), the better.

He opened the door to vent out the steam. “You used my apricot scrub.” Basira observed.

“It was that or a bacteria-infested bar of soap?” Jon explained by way of apology. He’d taken one look at the amorphous lump and Known the chemical composition of the cell membranes of Staph aureus, Strep pyogenes, and Pseudomonas aeruginosa. He’d given it a wide berth after that.

“Daisy’s not…big on being femme,” Basira relented, rummaging around in the under sink drawer. “But she’s not using a 3 in 1 anymore, so I suppose that’s progress. What about the hair?”

“What about it?”

She held out a set of clippers. “You cutting it off, or doing something with it?”

“Oh.” Jon frowned. He hadn’t given it much thought. “I suppose I…I actually quite like it long.”

“Hmm.”

He fidgeted with the hem of the shirt. “That’s…ah. That’s Daisy’s?” He nodded to the drawer of supplies where the clippers had come from. “You don’t think she’d mind, do you?”

Basira shrugged. “You get fleas, it’s your problem.”

Jon picked up a comb, flipped his hair over and began attacking the roots at his nape. This whole business had been much easier with two usable hands. Before he’d gotten worm wounds and skinning scars that restricted his mobility. Before he’d been blown up. Slept for six months then woke up Inhuman and hadn’t really bothered with his it since.

“What are you doing.” Basira accused flatly.

“Er, combing my hair?” Jon asked, wrong side up from under the mats and tangles.

“Not like that you’re not,” she snorted. “I’m guessing no sisters, strict family, always a dress code at school, and when you were out of the house you kept it short because you’re brown so you’ve got to go above and beyond in the grooming department just to get half-way even footing,” she assessed. Correctly. “But now you’re Undead and you think that’s an excuse to look like a tramp.”

“Yes, yes, yes, and no.” Jon argued. “It’s not _that_ bad.” He’d been accosted by Trevor Herbert. Twice. He should know.

“Good luck, Martin,” Basira said under her breath. “Right. I don’t know _what_ you and Georgie got up to if it wasn’t sex or basic hygiene skills, but you’re in my house, and you’re not leaving until you’ve learned.”

“Am…am I being kidnapped?” Jon asked as the comb became hopelessly stuck, then snapped. “Again.”

“I’m holding your _hair_ hostage.” Basira held up Daisy’s clippers. “ _You_ can leave anytime you want. Either shave it, or shove over.”

“I suppose I don’t have much choice.”

“No.” Basira told him. “You really don’t. First of all, lose the towel. _Never_ dry your hair with a towel. You’ll get frizz and split ends that way. You want something soft. Microfiber or cotton. Old t-shirt, even, if you have it. Now, mister.”

Jon stopped trying to extricate himself from the broken comb and blinked, bewildered. “Pardon?”

“No. Mister.” She indicated a spray bottle sitting on the counter.

“I’m not a _plant_ ,” he argued.

“ _Mister_.” She demanded, in no uncertain terms, taking the thing and wielding it like—well, like a gun.

…or a can of marking spray.

“I, er, ah—“ Jon backed away into the wall behind him. “I just got—“

“Sprayed in the face? Yeah. Knowing you, you deserved it.”

He didn’t disagree with her. Deserved far worse. And for someone so keen to feed on fear it was ironic, wasn’t it, that the sight of the nozzle held towards his face sent him into an uneasy panic. “It doesn’t make this—“ he gestured helplessly, “any easier.”

“Cover your face then. I’m wetting your hair.”

“Fine.” Jon bit out.

She spritzed him. _Thoroughly_.

“Now. Conditioner.” Basira thrust a bottle at him. It was round and smooth. Impossible to grip and pour with just his one hand. “More than you think you’ll need.” She instructed as he struggled with it. “More. More than that. Fuck’s sake—“ She wrest it away, squeezed an overflowing glob into her hands.

“Well that seems…excessive.”

“You’re excessive,” she returned, and attacked him. It was…slimy. Gooey. Made the tendrils of his hair cold and slick, a little too worm-like in texture for comfort. Jon ducked his head. Raised his shoulders past his ears in instinct.

“Stand still.” Basira ordered in a scolding tone so familiar he didn’t dare disobey. He was half-convinced she’d order him to his room without supper. “Water’s your friend, but a good leave in’s your lover. Bad analogy,” she frowned, stepping blessedly back. “ _Now_ you can comb.”

“R-right.” Jon agreed, fumbling on the counter for the pieces of Daisy’s comb.

“No. Wide tooth, fingers if you don’t have one.” She instructed, handing one over. “Start at the ends.”

Jon frowned at the pick. “That seems…inefficient.”

She gestured to the clippers. “You want to scalp yourself instead, be my guest.”

“Alright, alright.” Jon sighed. And ninety minutes and what had to be more than a dozen products later, the matted curtain that had been his hair was detangled. And conditioned. And parted. And sectioned. And blow-dried. On low. With _a diffuser_ , per Basira’s insistence. He’d been right: it was _entirely inefficient_. Half another dozen products later, and Basira declared the whole mess “passable.”

“Well?” She asked.

“Well what?” Jon returned.

“The _hair_ , Jon.”

“Oh. I suppose it’s…alright.” He conceded to his reflection. “Far too time consuming.”

Basira put the heels of her hands in her eyes. “Look, Jon, I say this as a fellow brown person you either cut it off or _take care of it_ because if I see you with that rat’s nest again I will be forced to use operational discretion. No jury of our peers would convict me.”

“You do this _every day_ ,” Jon frowned.

She crossed her arms. “And Georgie didn’t?”

Jon paused. “I suppose—she must’ve done. But it was just always…there.”

“You two were together for how long and you never _once_ saw her do her hair.”

“Well, no. She went to the shop for that. Weaves and wigs and things. She just—always had it done?” No matter the time or occasion her hair had always been immaculate. Even if it’d been sleeping in silk cap, or a wide edged satin bonnet like a brightly colored chignon. He’d just, well, always assumed it’d been effortless on her part. How Things Were. “Hair, makeup, nails…” he struggled, then shrugged. “That was just Georgie.” And another example of how he’d not been good enough for her.

“Hmm.” Basira mused aloud. “One of those.”

“One of those _what_?” Jon said. He and Georgie didn’t exactly…get along, these days. But she’d loved him—still did, despite his many shortcomings and all the bullshit and heartache he’d put her through—so he wouldn’t let an insult slide.

“It’s important to look your best when you feel your worst.” Basira said. “You’ve heard of never-nudes?”

“I um, pardon—?”

“Of course you haven’t.” She sighed. “Some people shower with their clothes on. Don’t like being naked. Literally never are. Some people are like that, just with…hair. And things.”

“Why?”

“Institutionalized racism? Poverty? Insecurity? All of the above? But if you’re a woman and POC you’ve got to be polished. All the time. You can either hate it, or wear it like armour. Either way, it’s part of you.”

“Ah.” Jon said. “Right.”

“If by ‘right’ you mean colonialism and sexism, then yes.”

“But you—you do it every day then put on _hijab_.” Jon burst in bafflement before he could stop himself. “Seems like a waste of time, really.”

“I know what I look like under there,” Basira shook her head. “It’s not like I wear it at home. And I have some semblance of self-respect.”

“Meaning I don’t.” Jon frowned.

“Jon, you wore an oversized Hawaiian shirt a Hunt avatar gave you as a _joke_. You did it for weeks, and worse, you did it _unironically_.”

“Well, yes.” It’d been big enough he could just slip it on, not worry about the buttons, loose enough it didn’t catch or pinch. Quite comfortable to sleep in. “It wasn’t as if we were going to be fired for _dress code violations_.” Jon said. Then added, “And mine had blood on it.”

“And you couldn’t have washed it?”

“We were trying to stop the Unknowing? All my luggage went on to D.C. when I was kidnapped. I had more pressing things to worry about at the time.” Georgie had been right, he _did_ always have an excuse prepared, didn't he?

“And you just, what, couldn’t be bothered?”

“I had to find a new flat.” Which he spent a collective total of perhaps a fortnight in between crashing late in the Institute and landing himself in a coma. Then promptly lost. In retrospect, not buying a whole new wardrobe when he’d returned had been one of the few _good_ decisions he’d made that year.

“I’m not police anymore but God help me I will be your personal fashion enforcer.” Basira threatened. “Least your face is healing up. Looks like you got those wounds weeks ago.”

Jon scratched at the irritated tissue. “They need to heal faster. I can’t exactly—“ talk to Martin, he stopped. “Not like—not like this.”

“Martin? Don’t think he’ll notice. He’ll be too distracted you’ve actually showered.”

“Yes, _thank you_ , Basira.”

“Come on, then.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re my guest, I’m contractually obligated to feed you. I’ll make some breakfast.”

“I don’t exactly eat.” Jon protested.

“Then I'll make you _tea_."

“Ah.” He trailed her to the kitchen. The air smelt familiar, layered with garlic, cumin, and coriander.

“The face thing.” Basira sobered, getting some toast on. “Were you trying to—you know?”

“No,” Jon admitted. He was what? Embarrassed? Ashamed? He could’ve, could’ve _solved this problem_ if he’d had even an ounce of Melanie’s stubborn courage. Or even just a bit more panic. But no. He Knew an accidental blinding wouldn’t be good enough. “Just sensory overload.”

“Good. You decide to, to—you _tell her first_. You hear me?” Basira demanded. “You don’t do that to Daisy.”

“I—I won’t.” Jon promised. “I won’t.”

“Oh. Talking now,” Daisy snorted from the small study, emerging with a stack of papers. “You’ve had your cry, you’ve had your beauty sleep, you’ve had your bloody spa day. Now Eat.” She thrust a statement at him.

“You are _not_ getting away with that in my flat.” Basira scolded. “You’re _both_ going to eat something proper.”

“Just tea for me.” Jon said, then added, “Thank you.”

“Tea,” Daisy scoffed, pouring two fingers of whiskey.

“Breakfast.” Basira scoffed. “Daisy, really.”

“The little git calls me to come get him at arse o’clock in the morning and he wants _tea_ , he says.”

“It reminds me of him.” Having someone fuss over him made him miss Martin. More than ever.

“Yes, we _know_ , Jon.” Basira said in a long-suffering tone. But she busied herself making chai anyways.

Apparently glasses weren’t necessary to read statements. Apparently _reading_ wasn’t necessary to read statements (or rather, consume them). The moment the paper was in his hands Jon _Knew_ the statement (an unnerving encounter with the Spiral that had been dismissed as a bad acid trip during uni back in the 70’s until the door began appearing again after thirty years of sobriety), could read it aloud without deciphering the words. He savored the terror, the denial, the slow, mounting horror and final acceptance of this new reality. At some point Basira shoved a cup of tea into his hands. There was something about the entities, something that made the statements more _satisfying_ than any memoir or autobiography, even if they were still stale. It shouldn’t feel so good, feeding off other people’s trauma. He should feel…something. Guilt, perhaps. In all likelihood the statement giver had chosen to come to the Institute, but the statement itself had still been compelled. Instead he felt nothing. Perhaps hunger.

He wondered idly if the statement giver was still alive, if two decades after reliving it for Gertrude it would now be him haunting the man’s dreams. Jon felt the knowledge begin to press on his mind. He pushed it away. He’d find out. Soon enough. One way or another.

“Better?” Daisy asked as he set the statement down.

“I—yes. Thank you.” He took a sip of tea. He clutched at the warm porcelain for comfort as she threw back both glasses of whiskey and sighed.

“Well then. Might as well get it over with.” She said in her usual brusque way. “What happened.”

…Oh. Right. He’d have to _talk about it._

“Right.” Jon cleared his throat. “I uh, ah, er, that is to say I…kissed—“

Daisy’s face split into a disconcertingly toothy grin. “That only took how many years. Maybe someday you’ll even hold hands.”

“Best use protection.” Basira cautioned. “You know where to buy gloves?”

“Are you quite finished.” Jon sighed.

They exchanged a Look. “No,” Basira told him. “I think we could go on quite a while, actually.”

“So?” Daisy insisted. “How was it?”

Jon said nothing. Stared glumly into his tea.

“That bad. Hm.”

Jon put his head down on the table. Wrapped his arms about himself as best he could. “Worse.”

“It was always going to be _awful_.” Daisy reasoned. “You’re out of practice. The last time you kissed someone was—“

“Georgie.” Jon admitted ashamedly.

Daisy whistled. “It’s been a while.”

“No,” Jon frowned. “Georgie.”

“So _a long while_ , then.”

“No, I—“ why wouldn’t she just _understand_ —? “It was _Georgie_.”

“So a really, _really, really, really—“_

“No, the—it—the kiss—it was Georgie.” He sat up and glared at her. “I kissed _Georgie_.”

There’s silence for a moment. Then snorts of laughter. Daisy’s _howling_. “What, you were you aiming for Martin and _missed_ —?”

Even Basira’s stern face threatened to crack. “This? _This_ is why you don’t get a gun.”

“Bad things happen when you lose your glasses, Sims?”

“It isn’t funny.” Jon scowled.

“No, mate,” Daisy’s still hiccoughing. “It’s fucking hilarious.”

“Look, if I just wanted to be _laughed at_ I could’ve stayed at the restaurant.” Jon snapped.

“So what, you kissed her and she _dye sprayed_ you?” Daisy whistled. “Out in public? Balls, that one. I like her.”

“You best have learned your lesson,” Basira monotoned. “Pull any snogging here and it’ll be pepper spray.”

“Yes, _thank you_ , Basira.” Jon said, but there was no real anger there. Everything in him was crumpling. This was the part he really didn’t want to talk about. “It wasn’t Georgie.”

“Well it wasn’t _Martin_.”

Daisy’s gaze grew sharp and focused. On the Hunt. “Basira’s a point.”

“It all happened in front of, in front of everyone, and Martin was _upset_. I was…I went…I went out. To get gelato? But it was—it was too much I had to leave the shop I was going to go back I just needed to…needed to clear my head and I was just—walking.” Jon rushed, unable to form coherent thought yet unable to stop. “And then I was _hunting_ , and I—I found someone and I, I almost—I wanted to _hurt_ her, just _rip_ it out—“

“You idiot.” Daisy snarled. “Come here.”

Jon stiffened. “I don’t—“

“Shut up.” She wrestled him in tight, putting her chin atop his head. “You need a hug. You’re getting one.”

“Yeah.” Basira agreed.

They stared at her.

“The hug is a metaphor,” she explained. “The metaphor is—“

“A bullet.” He Knew. “Yes, _thank you_ , Basira.”

“Oy,” Daisy shook him a little. “You’ve gone and snogged Melanie’s partner. Stop mind-reading mine.”

“All I do is muck things up.” He said, voice muffled in her stab vest. It was… _nice,_ being held like this. Overstimulating, certainly, but the tight, even pressure was grounding. Even within the chaos of Knowing Everything, he still had a body. He was real, and he was _here_.

“Welcome to being human.” Basira snorted.

“That’s not as reassuring as you may think.”

“Oh boo hoo I’m a Monster and nobody loves me,” Daisy increased her hold until he gave into exhaustion and melted against her. “If only I had a best friend who could _understand completely_ and a boyfriend who’d sacrifice himself to a creepy old man so I wouldn’t get my idiot arse killed. _Again_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #wifethatifyoudare


	15. Chapter 15

“Are you…” Georgie stops. “You’re cleaning up after.”

“I just thought I’d—help out?” Martin offers. It’s instinct, really. Be useful. Be helpful. Earn your place.

“Hmm.”

“The neutral hmm of disapproval,” Melanie winces. “We’re in for it now, lads.”

“Will you be serious for one minute?” Georgie asks in exasperation.

“Nope.”

“Martin, it’s our house. You’re our _guest_. Stop doing dishes.”

“Oh. Right. Yes. Sorry.” Martin says, and sits awkwardly at the table. The Admiral jumps back into his lap, purring away.

Melanie and Georgie share a very pointed look(?). “I am all kindnessed out for the day,” Melanie raises her hands. “He’s your ex’s boyfriend. Your problem.”

“Why are you here?” It isn’t an accusation, but it’s pointed. Direct.

Martin looks down at The Admiral. Plays with his fur. “I sort of assumed _he’d_ be here.”

“Well, he’s not. And not that you’re not welcome, but honestly, is being here right now helping _you_ any?”

“No.” Martin admits. Georgie is put-together, bold, and intimidating. He’d no idea how Jon had gone from dating her to, to _him_. “Not, not entirely.”

“Then maybe you should leave.”

“I—“ He should go. He really should. He’d shown up unannounced. He’s overstayed his welcome. But he—

He just _can’t._ Martin sighs, shoulders slumped. “I can’t.”

“Why?” Georgie insists. “What bullshit excuse do _you_ have for not dealing with this?” The ‘you two idiots deserve each other’ went unsaid.

He feels his face burning. “...The um, The Admiral’s asleep—?”

“Oh,” Georgie says, looking down at the snoring mass on his lap, tongue blepping out in a sliver of pink. Her expression melts. She pulls out her phone. Snaps a picture. “Oh. He is.”

“Yeah,” Melanie agrees. “That’s actually fair.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> martin can have little a cat, as a treat


	16. Chapter 16

Basira liked to look her best. Knew sharp, winged eyeliner, perfect brows, and bright lips with a complimentary coloured hijab were time well spent. Armor. Ammunition. She dealt in information. Intelligence. Wasn’t much for coddling or comfort. The, er, makeover(?) had been her way of sharing that arsenal with him. Showing support.

Daisy’d a different approach. She sat his arse down on the living room couch, ordered takeaway, and got him _stupidly fucking drunk_.

There was a—cricket? no, football—match in the background on the telly. At some point in the intervening hours he’d sprawled into her lap, drooling on her shoulder, good hand buried in their shared bag of vinegar chipsticks, crying about Martin. You spend three days clinging to each other in The Buried and suddenly drunk cuddling doesn’t seem like such a bad idea, even if she had once held a gun to him and tried to slit his throat. And Daisy was a _wonderful_ cuddler. She went all stiff and held her arms at odd angles and didn’t try to touch him and he didn’t have to worry about Hands Where They Shouldn’t Be or her trying to turn this into One of Those Things.

…Perfect.

“Daisy,” Jon tried again.

“I’m not killing you.” She told him for the hundredth time.

“But I _attached_ —wait, no that’s not…er, _attacked_ someone,” he slurred.

“No, you _tried_ to attack someone, had a change of heart and now you’re all sad about it. You make your shitty choices and you live with them.” Daisy said, opening a bottle of ale with just her thumb and another bottle lid. “No deal.”

“But I’m _dangerous_ ,” Jon protested. “I _hurt_ people.”

“You’re drunk off your arse.” Daisy growled. “Bet you couldn’t take two steps. Don’t seem very dangerous to me.”

“You’re the only one who _can_.”

“Tough shite.” She took a long drink. Jon grimaced. Mouth sounds were _disgusting_. Mouth sounds heard through several inches of meat sack were _even more disgusting_.

“Daisy.”

“No.”

“…Daisy.”

Silence.

“ _Daisy_.”

Sigh. “What?”

“I’m a monster.”

“Sod off.”

“What if he hates me?”

“Who?”

Jon started giggling. “Martin.” Martin was _nice_. Martin made him _happy._ But Jon had Kissed Georgie and done a Very Stupid Thing and left Martin All Alone then did a Very Bad Thing and he was a Monster so now Martin hated him and didn’t want to see him ever again and he should Just Die. It made him sad.

“Oh Jesus fucking Christ.” Daisy groaned. He was crying again. “You’re _still_ swanning about being all lovesick? Why isn’t this working.”

“Maybe beause you’re not a qualified counselor.” Basira’s voice disapproved from somewhere in the ether.

“No, it’s because he’s still bloody _conscious_.” Daisy retorted, pushing another bottle into his fumbling hands. Doom Bar, Jon squinted to frown at the familiar label suspiciously. It, it was his favorite ale—

“I _know_ , you idiot.” Daisy snapped. “You’ve told me. Now we’re drinking ‘til you shut up.”

“Oh.” Jon agreed as she shoved the bottle at him. “Right.”

“Still talking, still drinking,” she threatened.

“I think that’s…er, that’s quite enough.” Jon argued, trying to push it away as the room spun around them. She had a good foot and at least a hundred pounds of muscle on him. Not to mention she was _Welsh_. Jon could have a beer on a good day before getting flushed, two before being sick.

“You’re still— _sad_ , aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Jon admitted. “I miss Martin.”

“We _know,_ Jon.” Basira snapped.

“Drink this.” Daisy sighed.

“Will it…will it make it better—?” Jon blinked up at her, imploring her six swimming faces.

“Can’t make it worse.” She shrugged.

It seemed like solid reasoning. Jon nodded. Drank.

“There you go.” There was a fissing, popping sound as Daisy replaced the now empty bottle with a full one. Jon downed it miserably, sniffling into her shirt sleeves.

“So your plan is to kill him with alcohol poisoning.” Basira sighed.

“It’s not going to _kill him_.” Daisy growled. “It’ll just get him to shut up.”

When Jon became aware again, he was face-down in the toilet. Retching. Basira was braiding his hair back. Daisy sat nearby on the sink, a grin on her face. Victorious.

“ _You_.” Jon accused.

“Negative reinforcement,” she sang. “Next time you get all mopey, maybe you’ll _deal with your problems_ instead of coming to cry at me.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“No.” Jon agreed with a sigh. “I don’t.”


	17. Chapter 17

The Admiral is a chonk.

…he’s also kneading his claws dangerously close to Martin’s dangly bits. He winces.

“Admiral,” Georgie frowns. “We’ve talked about this.”

“Help.” Martin pleads.

“It’s not his fault,” Georgie iterates. “Jon let him get away with _murder_ and he’s not been around many men since.”

“Could you maybe—“Martin begins. She goes to move him, but he only digs his claws in deeper.

“Ookay, then.” Georgie apologizes as Martin makes a desperate little _eep!_ “I think he’s just going to hang out there.”

“Damn.” Melanie grins. “He’s really got you by the balls, huh.”

“Melanie.”

“I’ll just, I’ll just text Jon, shall I?” Martin grimaces, still petting The Admiral one-handedly, as he’d since learned any lull in the continuous adoration led only to further threat of castration.

“Yeah. Tell him you’re being held against your will by an obese cat and two lesbians.”

“I’m bisexual.” Georgie reminds her.

“So am I.” Melanie shrugs. “No, wait, I’ve got it,” she snorts. “Tell him you’ve got a lapful of some really great pussy.”

“Melanie!”

“He’s not responding. It’s—it’s nothing.” Martin tries to brush it off, failing to hide the worry in his voice. “You know how, how Jon is.”

Melanie pulls out her mobile. “Text Daisy.” She says. “Yo loverboi is over here panicking about hot mess, you got him?”

“I’—I’m not sure that was necessary,” he frowns.

“You standing around wringing your hands all day isn’t necessary.”

“Stop it, you two.” Georgie chastens. “You’re worse than _Jon_.”

Melanie sticks out her tongue. Waits expectantly for her mobile to alert her to a text.

…Nothing.

“Try Basira.” Georgie tells them. “Of the three of them she sounds like she actually has her shit together.”

“Text Basira.” Melanie says into her mobile. “Hot mess and murdercop are AWOL, loverboi is panicking. Please tell me you’ve got them.”

They wait.

“Call them.” Georgie says grimly.

“Jon, it’s, it’s Martin.” What was he even doing? Of course Jon would know it was him, would see the caller ID. Had seen and not picked up anyway. He’d been, been _kidnapped_ , or worse, didn’t want to talk to him. “I’m with Melanie and Georgie. An-and The Admiral? We’re sort of worried about you, if you could just pick up—“

He can hear Daisy’s terse voicemail through Melanie’s speakers. “Detective Tonner. Leave a message.”

“Well that’s not ominous.” She says. Turns to Georgie. “What do you think?”

Georgie drums her acrylics against the table. “It’s fine.” She repeats, sounding less certain by the second. Martin swallows down the rising anxiety in his throat. “It’s most likely nothing.”

“Call Basira.” Melanie says into her mobile.

“You’ve reached Basira. I’m probably reading—you know what to do.”

“Well, shit.” Melanie says.

“Agreed. Martin?”

“I’m—I’m really worried.” It’s the understatement of the century. He’s vibrating out of his shoes in anxiety. It’s only been a few hours. But anything could have happened. Why can’t he stay safe for more than fifteen seconds? Was it too much to ask him to take care of himself, not to go barreling off into trouble? Why had he even let Jon out of his sight? It’s his fault something’s happened, and he’ll never, _never_ forgive himself—

“I gouged my eyes out for this.” Melanie sighs, scraping back her chair to stride across the living room. She crouches , fishing under the couch for something. She drags out a hefty, battered axe. “C’mon.”

“What’s—what is that?” Georgie asks, aghast.

“It’s…it’s _Jon’s_ axe.” Martin says in surprise. “Where did you get it?”

“He gave it to Tim. Tim—well, you know.” Melanie clears her throat. “Basira gave it to me after. From the station. They recovered it during clean up.”

“You’re stashing weapons under the couch. We are going to talk about this.” Georgie warns her.

“Yeah. _After_ we rescue our friends from a rampaging flesh monster.” Melanie snorts. “Or whatever the hell it is this time.”

“Right.” Martin worries. “Right. I, um, do you think you’re really—“

“Oh, no.” Melanie wrinkles her nose. “ _Georgie’s_ gonna heave it.”

“Look, we’re all just worried,” Georgie lies. “It’s most likely nothing—“

“Because she swings both ways. Violently.” Melanie grins at him. “With an axe.”

Georgie’s unimpressed. “Have you been waiting for someone bisexual to hold it just to make that pun?”

“Obviously. Tim would approve.” Melanie insists. “Jon’s ex with Jon’s axe. Heh.”

“Tim _would_ approve.” Martin agrees nervously.

She holds it out. “Georgie?”

“Fine.” Georgie accepts it with reluctance. “Right, then.”

“Ain’t afraid of no ghosts.” Melanie decides. “Georgie’s an axe, and I’ve got a knife.”

“Melanie.”

“Okay, okay. Two knives.”

“Melanie!”

“Alright I lied. Make that _a lot_ of knives. And Martin, you…” she turns to him and frowns. “You just cry at someone.”

“ _Melanie!_ ”

“What?” she shrugs. “He’s good at it. Fooled Elias.”

“That’s not even remotely my point.” Georgie crosses her arms, put-together, made-up, immaculate, and now more intimidating than ever with the axe slung over one shoulder. It’s all wasted on Melanie.

“I’ve got a corkscrew?” Martin offers.

“Oof. You _definitely_ need to call my therapist.” Melanie winces. “And before you ask, Georgie, you really don’t want to know.”

“No.” Georgie says, resigned. “I don’t. I didn’t want you getting caught up in this again, either.”

“Just because I left the Institute doesn’t mean I’m an _idiot_.” Melanie snorts. “There’s still monsters and avatars and entities and all sorts out to kill us. I blinded myself so I wouldn’t be _helping_ them.” She insists. “It’d be stupid to think I wouldn’t need to protect myself. Or my friends.”

Georgie sighs. Opens up some tinned food, and The Admiral perks up, goes running for his food dish.

Martin stands. Breathes a short sigh of relief. But with The Admiral gone, all his anxiety focuses right on Jon. If anything’s happened…

“Shall we?” Melanie asks.


	18. Chapter 18

Basira’s couch was not made with comfort in mind. Sure, it was _padded_ enough, but It was criminally narrow. Who had even designed such a thing?

IKEA, the Beholding informed him, along with the knowledge of their complicated corporate structure and holding companies that essentially amounted to international tax fraud. It also—unsurprisingly—gifted him a splitting headache. Great. Now he had to climb all the way across Daisy to find the only semi-comfortable place on this truly awful couch. Ugh.

“Oi, stoppit!” Daisy snarled as his knee caught her solar plexus. “Or I let Basira do a bikini wax next.”

“Just getting comfortable.” Jon mumbled, nestling in behind her as the cushions swallowed him. He snuggled closer. Daisy was warm. Warm and safe. Warm and safe and familiar. Then, after some consideration, he wrinkled his nose. He didn’t even _wear_ bikinis. He told her as much.

“Good to hear.” Basira said drily from the other end of the couch. She dabbed at his little toe.

“That was entirely not the point.” Daisy scowled. “It’s no fun to threaten you when you’re too drunk to get the point.”

“The point was…” Jon trailed off. “It was. What was. The point.” The Beholding didn’t answer.

_Rude._

“The _point_ is, stop being a crybaby.” Basira told him. “Or next time I’ll let her get you stoned and take you clubbing. You’re lucky you’re getting away with the sleepover treatment. Now hold still.”

“It’s not even a good _colour._ ” Jon mumbled into Daisy’s shoulder. The varnish was a deep, reddish purple. Dark. Matte. Complimented his complexion. It’s just—the austere shade reminded him of something his _grandmother_ would wear. “Should be black,” he slurred. “Or silver.”

“Hear that Basira? It’s not even a _good colour_.” Daisy snorted, chest heaving underneath him. “What a wanker.”

“We can’t all be Gerard Keay.” Basira sniffed, shifting on the floor to get at his toenails from a better angle. “Some of us are professionals and have to dress like grown-ups.”

“At _the Magnus Institute_ —?” Jon doubted. Tim once wore weed socks for _weeks_. He liked Tim. Tim had been his friend. Tim was dead. Hadn't forgiven him. Tim made him sad.

“Oh, shit.” Daisy groaned. “You’re not crying. Not _again_.”

“Some of us are professionals and _choose_ to dress like grown-ups.” Basira amended. “Now stop wiggling.”.

“It _tickles_.”. Jon grimaced. It was an unpleasant feeling but not a Bad Touch, and he was far too drunk and far too sad to try to fend her off again. When she’d first touched his ankle he’d kicked out, and Daisy had grabbed him by the nape and shook him like a doll. _That_ hadn’t been pleasant. The room had already been spinning enough as it was, thank you.

…Wouldn’t stop him moping and fidgeting, though.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t get shitfaced.” Basira countered.

“You’re a shitface.” Jon insisted. Sadly. Because he was still sad. About Martin. About Tim. About Sasha. Even Gerry. But he’d been an insufferable child, could be an even more insuffererable(?), er, insufferabler(???) he could _drunk._

“With this contour? These highlights?” Basira raised her brows. “I don’t think so.”

“Don’t you have anything _metallic_.” Jon groused.

“No.”

“Useless.” He huffed.

“God, I always knew you were a git but apparently you’re a _scene kid_.” Daisy said in disgust.

“Punk.” Jon scowled, shifting to get his nose out of her armpit. She smelt like wet dog.

“What?”

“Not _scene. N_ ot _emo_.” The distinction was, as he remembered from uni, Very Important. “ _Punk_.”

“Bollocks.” Daisy snorted. “Punk my arse. You’re at least fifty percent _cardigan._ ”

“You wear vests.” Jon countered, nestling his face comfortably into the hollow between her sternum and collarbone. There. Perfect. She was never allowed to move again.

“Yeah. _Stab vests_.” Her voice came sonorous through her ribs. “’Cause I’m metal as fuck.”

“Don’t listen to a word she says.” Basira said, switching her attention to his left foot. “She likes The Archers.”

“Basira!” Daisy howled in betrayal.

“Never misses an episode.” She continued. “ _Never_. She likes to act all tough, but deep down inside she’s just a Basic White Bitch.”

“Ha.” Jon raised his head in victory. Bad plan. Daisy barely got the trashcan to his face in time before he was retching everywhere.

“Hydrate.” She growled, and pushed some sort of horrible sports drink into his hands. He promptly dropped it. Spilt all down her. Served her right. “You are absolutely. Bloody. Useless.” She wrestled him upright, and wrenched another bottle open.

“I don’t have a favourite brand of lotion,” Jon complained as she forced him to drink it.

“Don’t look at me.” He heard Basira shrug. “No clue.”

“Right.” Daisy said irritably. “Throw up on me again, Sims, and I draw a dick on your face.”

Words were…Not His Friend right now. Jon flopped back against her. Gave her the finger. She let out a startled bark of laughter.

“Oh, I’m _definitely_ taking you clubbing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jorb is gone. Press f for Jorb. Long live Jectangle! 
> 
> ...Jectangle and Snasha's stream has taken over my life and given me RIGHTS.
> 
> Jon(ny’s) nail varnish: BarryM Molten Metal Black Diamond


End file.
